An Exile's Effect
by Dzugh
Summary: Whiskey... Whiskey never changes. That is, if the standard side-effect of drinking the damned thing is waking up on an alien planet and being left for dead. ME SI, pre-ME1 era, possible SI/OC later on.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Well, uhh… Hello there, fellow reader! I'm Dzugh, and this is my first attempt at an SI, or even fanfic in general. What inspired me to write this were SI's of such great quality as Herr Wozzeck's Mass Vexations, iNf3ctioNZ's Masses to Masses and DelVarO's Massed Up – All of which are great fics and if you haven't read them yet, you most certainly should. I can merely hope that this will score anywhere near that quality.**

**Anyway, now that the introductions are out of the way, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing, and I hope that my actual fanfic is better than my Author's Notes!**

**Prologue**

As my mind slowly finds its way back into consciousness, I find myself hit by one thing and one thing alone: A massive headache.

Damn it! I knew I shouldn't have drank that much whiskey last night! I mean, true, it was my best friend's birthday, and he did challenge me to a drinking game, but I can see clearly now that accepting that challenge was a huge, hangover-bringing mistake. Now, if only I could've seen that last night…

Wait a second… As numbness finally starts leaving my body, I can clearly sense that I'm lying on the floor, except the texture is all wrong. As I grow more and more conscious by the second, I realize that this is some sort of rock I'm lying on.

And I get that doesn't make any sense. My friends could be pretentious assholes sometimes, but driving me off God-knows-where and leaving there to rot was below them… Right?

As I finally find myself fully awake, I decide to open my eyes and see what's going on.

My eyes finally flash open and I'm greeted by the lovely sight of a red sky.  
Now, this would somewhat make sense if it was dawn, but I can see the Sun _right above me!_

As I struggle to figure out what's going on, my nostrils are assaulted by an unwelcome smell. My head turns to face the apparent source of that smell. The sight that greets me is even less welcome than the smell.

I see another human, staring right back at me, with an almost accusing stare. _Then I realize that half of his head is missing! _

My head instinctively turns to the other side, as I'm absolutely terrified by the sight. What greets me there is hardly any better. Another butchered body. As my head continues to move, trying to inspect the environment, I'm greeted by one massacred body after another. I can hear some of them are still alive, some screaming in agony, while others merely sob while awaiting their fate.

This is the part where most of the people would scream out of fear. I on the other hand, don't. And that's because I'm too terrified.

Behind me I hear a deep, resounding voice speak:

"Think we should put them down? Their screams are starting to get on my nerves."

Another, similar voice replies:

"They're humans, Denerak. They deserve all they get. Besides, once the human Alliance forces get here, they'll be so distracted by the screaming that they won't even notice us…"

"Keep dreaming, Silan." – Denerak, apparently, says. – "Besides, the only good human is a dead human."

"Alright, you want to kill 'em? Kill 'em." – Silan replies with an annoyed voice, causing Denerak to, I presume, jump in joy. – "But I and the rest of the gang are staying here."

Then I hear a sound of someone jumping over something. I presume fortifications of some sort, followed by Denerak's reply:

"Fine, I'll have all the fun for myself!"

Several seconds later, I hear two strange-sounding gunshots and one of the screaming voices simply stops… Several seconds later another, then another and yet another. At this point I begin to, plain and simple, panic.

I know I have to get out of here, and my fight-or-flight chemicals enter the bloodstream.

Against my better judgment of playing dead, I quickly get up (or rather, stumble up) and begin to run for it.

"Hey guys!" – I hear Denerak's say. – "We've got a real live one here!"

I scan my surroundings, trying to find some cover, but besides a relatively small boulder, I see nothing. The boulder being my best chance, I run for it.

I run as fast as I can, first step – second step, one – two, one – two, one – two.

Then Denerak, presumably, begins to fire his gun at me. I can hear bullets hitting the ground around me, flying harmlessly past me, and still not hitting me. Thankfully, Denerak is one piss-poor marksman.

But then, I stumble on something, a rock I guess. I try to get back up as quickly as possible, but due to panic induced by Denerak's fire, that isn't easy.

And then, my luck finally runs out.

I hear one of the bullets make a… Squishy, for the lack of better terms, sound. I don't feel anything, but I'm afraid that he hit me, so I throw a quick glance at my legs. One of them is leaking a crimson liquid. I try to deny it for a moment, but I realize I was hit.

My struggle ceases as the painful sensation travels from my leg, overriding any attempts at moving. I simply collapse back at rocky surface, face first.

I ignore the additional wounds that have now appeared at my face, and attempt to crawl away, even though at this point I realize that it's pointless.

Several seconds later, I see a shadow stepping over me. A mere moment later, a powerful kick to the ribs sends me rolling onto my back. Though the Sun initially blinds me, the man's shadow soon rectifies that as he steps over me.

"So, this is the human who though he could get away?" – He asks in a mocking tone.

Then I see his face. And if none of this made any sense before, it certainly didn't now. I see a dark brown-red, four-eyed face of what I recognized was a batarian. With that, I'm left speechless.

"And the human can't speak?" – Denerak continues his monologue with fake disappointment. – "Shame, I would've liked to hear your screams before you died!"

As he raises his assault rifle towards me, a strange thought, condemning Denerak of hypocrisy, goes through my panicked mind.

Then I find myself staring down his assault rifle's barrel. And as I prepare for inevitable, I hear a gunshot and everything goes black.

Wait a second, I can still think. Why can I still think if I'm dead?

Then I hear a barrage of various gunshots open up, about a dozen joining them a few moments later. Some of them seem to be silenced by the heavy guns that open fire few moments later.

I open my eyes, to be greeted by the sight of… Three gunships from ME2? That's what they look like. They open fire on where I presume the batarian fortifications are.

I look around and see what appears to be a small mechanized unit of Alliance troopers and several Makos advancing, the Makos effectively providing cover and fire support for the infantry.

"They're breaking off!" – I hear the muffled voice of what I presume is an Alliance soldier.

Nearly as soon as he says that I can see a larger vehicle move up… Wait, is that one of those Grizzly tanks? The vehicle grinds to a halt, and the front hatch opens up, revealing a woman, in what is apparently a bit different version of the armor the rest of the soldiers have, she presumably being the commander of the forces.

I can see her raise her raise her left arm to her head, presumably activating some sort of communicator, as witnessed by the Makos breaking formation and apparently pursuing the retreating batarians.

"Spread out! Check for survivors!" – One of the soldiers orders just loud enough that I can hear him.

Then, looking back at my leg, I realize just how much I've bled.

"Hey! I'm here! I NEED HEEELP!" – I scream, half-fueled by agony I'm in, half-fueled by pure panic at the large poodle of blood that my left leg was in.

"We got a live one here!" – I hear the voice of a female soldier who is closest of them to me. As she rushes to help me, I can see the commander disembark her Grizzly, and I don't know if it is due to loss of blood, but I'm sure I saw that figure somewhere…

I see the soldier who spotted me earlier above me. She speaks up:

"He's alive, but bleeding badly." – She reports into her communicator. – "I don't think I have enough medigel to stabilize him, Lieutenant!"

In the distance I can see the commander tap her communicator again, and I hear a reply coming from the soldier's own comm. unit:  
"I'll be there in a second, Ramirez!"

However, I can feel my consciousness slipping away already… Damn, headache aside, I actually feel like sleeping… Yes, a little nap won't kill me…

However, soon it becomes evident that the soldier won't have any of that. She slaps me so hard that any thoughts about sleeping mysteriously vanish from my mind.

"Stay awake!" – She orders. – "I am _not _loosing another civvie today!"

As I'm in no position to negotiate, I simply grunt in acknowledgement. Damn it, there were nicer ways of saying that! Those critical thoughts are lost, however, when I see the Lieutenant towering above me.

"How bad is it?" – The Lieutenant asks in an awfully familiar voice.

"The wound itself is treatable, but he's lost a lot of blood." – The soldier called Ramirez replied.

The Lieutenant turns to me and asks:"What's your name?"

I must admit that I'm a bit startled by the question, so it takes several seconds to blurt out my response: "S… Sergei."

"Okay Sergei," – She replies, her voice emotionless and helmet concealing any expression. – "I need you to stay calm."

She opens up her omni-tool, presumably to apply some medigel. I have little choice but to try staying calm. Suddenly, I feel a cold, tingling sensation over my wound.

"That should keep you stable until help arrives." – The Lieutenant answers my unasked question.

At the edge of my sight I can see a third soldier approach.

"Lieutenant, Major Kyle's requesting a SITREP!" – He informs quickly.

Lieutenant sighs, and brings her left hand back to her comm. unit.

"Major, this is Lieutenant Shepard. Do you read me?" – The Lieu… Wait, holy shit… Did she just say Shepard? That's why the voice was familiar!

As _Shepard _starts leaving I can hear her muttering off the situation, but I'm too shocked by this revelation to care… Or come to think of it, by the fact that I'm… Wherever here is.

Ramirez must've seen the worry and confusion on my face, as she said:

"Don't worry; you're going to be just fine."

I don't say anything. I'm far too tiered and far too confused by all of this to do so.

"Look, we can't stay here and keep protecting you civvies, the Brass wants batarians off Torfan by nightfall." – She explains, leaving me to contemplate what this could mean for me. – "Don't worry, though, we're sending several transports to pick you up. You're gonna to be just fine."

With that she starts to leave, leaving me alone once more. I turn to see the Alliance forces reorganizing, presumably to push the enemy further. At least I knew I was on Torfan.

As consciousness starts to drain away from me once more, I can hear the rumbling of the returning Makos, and soon afterwards the sound of the Alliance unit moving out.

As the world turns to black, I am left to wonder: What am I going to do?

**A/N: And there you have it, the first chapter. I hope it didn't come of as _too _bad. The next chapter should come out soon enough, if life doesn't choose to intervene.**


	2. Survival of the Fortunate

**A/N: First of all, I must thank DelVarO, CuHnadian and Delfin Jonte for reviewing! Thanks guys! You're awesome for that in my book!**

**Now, here comes the second chapter. I don't know how fast I can dish them out, but I'll try to be as productive as humanely possible.**

**Now, without further ado…**

**Survival of the Fortunate**

My consciousness returns to me at last. I think, it's not like I can actually tell. I turn in the bed, noting that it's not as comfortable as my own. Damn, I must've been dropped off at Mike's house.

But whatever. I just barely returned to the world of the sober. And that was one hell of a dream I had. Getting rescued by Shepard from batarians on Torfan… Way wilder than my previous Whiskey-induced delusions. And I drank down enough of that stuff in my life to know.

Wait. Come to think of it, from all the Whiskey I had last night I should have a hangover – Scratch that, the Mother of all Hangovers. Yet I don't feel a damned thing. Plus, why is my left leg aching so much? Did I get run over by car or something?

Wait, wait… Wasn't I shot in the left leg in the dream?

My eyes flash open. And I am _not _greeted by the familiar sight of Mike's house.

Instead, I'm greeted by the unfamiliar sight of what seems to be a makeshift futuristic field hospital. It's dark. It's certainly not a building originally designed to be a hospital. It's got flashing blue diodes and lights everywhere.

So… Me getting transported to Torfan somehow? Those people getting shot? _Me _getting shot? It all happened?

No, no, no… This - This must be some sick joke. Someone must've put some LSD or something in my Whiskey. That is not below the pretentious assholes that are my friends… Right?

I-I-I have to get out of here! This can't be real! This can't be possibly happening!

I look down to my right arm to see some sort of injector tube. I promptly rip it out, ignoring my arm's protests and the subsequent wound, and practically jump off the makeshift medical bed, much to the surprise of other survivors that are awake here.

But instead of being greeted by my legs firmly holding me up, I collapse down to the floor. As I hit the floor, something hits me: My friends, my family, _my whole damned life _is gone. Plain and simple, gone.

I hear some footsteps approaching me. Likely the medics here. But I'm too focused trying to deal with the fact that this is actually happening… Back there before I blacked out, the setting seemed surreal, but this? Reality hits you. And reality is unforgiving.

One of the medics grabs me by the shoulders and he practically yells at me:

"Hey, hey! It's okay! You're safe now!"

Or at least that's what it seems to me. Not like I'm paying attention to him anyway.

And then, I can't help but be angry at myself, for allowing my feelings to get in the way of my better judgment. The fact is, I'm here. And I have to get my priorities straight. Guess I gotta get some rules.

Rule #1: Survival first, angst later.

Meanwhile, the medic continued to shout something unintelligible to me. As he stops after a few seconds, I simply blurt out:

"Yeah, right… Sorry."

"Never mind that. You have to get back into the bed. You're still weak." – He replies nonchalantly. I guess he had a few patients in similar predicaments to deal with today.

And so, with the help of two medics, I'm helped back up to the bed. As I lay back down, the medic takes the injector tube back into his hand, sighing and shaking his head.

He opens up his omni-tool and pointed the thing at the tube. I guess he is trying to disinfect it. Either way, the button mashing continues for a few seconds… And then I decide to break the silence:

"So… How's the fighting going?"

For a moment, he shifts his gaze to me before turning it back to his omni-tool.

"It's over, actually." – He replies with sheer simplicity.

"Oh?" – I say, hoping to get him to be a little bit more specific.

"It was over for about a day." – He elaborates, as the button mashing continues. – "But damn, we beat those batarian barbarians tough."

I make a facial expression indicating that explanation wasn't going to cut it.

In response he rolls his eyes, before continuing:

"That one Lieutenant – Shepard? – Placed a trap for the retreating slavers. And she took no prisoners." – He says, before his face changing to a bit sourer one. – "We took a lot of casualties. Had to treat at least a dozen Marines myself. Guess the batarian bastards got what they deserved, though."

With those words out of the way, he suddenly grabs my right arm, and with brute, yet precise, efficiency he… Reintroduces it to my arm, just below my self-caused wound.

And without another word he walks away, presumably having other patients to deal with.

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The past few hours passed pretty uneventfully. And I was thankful for it. I still had a tough time accepting what happened. Then again, there was little point to not accepting it all. It's not as if reality cared what I accepted.

However, the reign of uneventfulness was coming to end. I saw another medic coming. He could be, of course, coming to help out some of the other dozen survivors here, but the uneventfulness was never going to be the same again.

But he seems to be coming right towards me. And after I few seconds, this theorem gets itself a confirmation.

"Someone would like to speak to you." – The medic informs me.

"Uhh, I might need a little help getting there." – I reply, remembering my previous attempt to get anywhere by myself.

"No you won't." – The medic replies with a sign of boredom in his voice. – "The meds should've worn off by now."

Indeed, come to think of it, my leg started to hurt worse in the recent hours.

"I'll still need some help with this, though." – I say, pointing to my right arm and the injector tube.

He simply rolls his eyes, and promptly proceeds to remove the tube before I even know what's going on. He then looks upon me, as if trying to hurry me up.

With the still clumsy support of my arms, I get up. My legs still feel a little… Off, but this time I didn't collapse. I'll go ahead and take that as a sign that my survival prospects just skyrocketed. Usually I'm not an optimist, but this is the one exception when a little optimism won't kill me. Most likely.

With a simple movement of his hand, the medic instructs him to follow me. And besides a few stumbles, this is proceeding quite well. As we exit the room, I can see just how many casualties the earlier medic was referring to are here.

We find ourselves in a large room, by the layout I'd presume it was a mess hall once. There are at least fifty mixed troopers and survivors here.

The medic, unfazed by all of this, simply proceeds to walk towards our objective.

And after what I presume is a minute of walking, he points me at one particular door. I, having little other choice, enter.

"Ah, there you are." – An oddly familiar voice bids me a greeting.

As I turn to face my unknown host, I realize who it is.

"I'm Operations Chief Alenko, and I'm hoping you can clear some things up for us."

Although I considered Kaidan to be one of the blander characters in-game, I can't help but stare a little. Unfortunately he notices this.

"Is there something wrong?" – He asks.

Damn it, I have to snap out of it! I mean, meeting two major characters of the series in matter of… What was it? Days? Hours? Either way, it can't be a coincidence.

"No, no, nothing at all Operations Chief." – I lie, if a bit unconvincingly. – "I think you said I could clear something up for you?"

Apparently thinking nothing of it, or perhaps dug in too deep in all the paperwork, he simply nods. Why would a biotic be in charge of logistics anyway?

"Right. When we brought you in we scanned you for your ID chip. We found none." – He says. – "Could you explain that to us?"

Oh. Now, that might be a bit of a problem. I just have to stay calm and come up with a convincing backstory that won't raise any eyebrows. Because if I told the truth I'd be placed in a mental institution. Oh, no pressure, no bloody pressure at all.

…

And after a few seconds worth of silence, Kaidan speaks up again:

"Is everything alright, uh mister…"

His intentionally trailing off voice serves as an indicator for me to introduce myself.

"Sergei." – I say, all too nervously. – "Sergei Pavlov."

He nods, and then speaks up again:

"So, according to the slavers' records you were captured on board MSV Ebon Hawk."

Wait a second. Why don't I remember any of that? Huh. I guess the situation isn't about to get any clearer and actually start to make sense. Oh no, that would be far too simple.

Also, Ebon Hawk? Really? I truly despise coincidences sometimes.

"The Ebon Hawk was, according to what I could find, making its standard cargo run from Terminus Systems." – He finishes.

Terminus Systems? Yes, Terminus Systems! That would be my way out of this mess! Long live the Terminus!

"Ah, right!" – I reply a bit too eagerly. – "You see, I was born and raised in the Terminus Systems. I was making my way to Alliance territory when the Ebon Hawk was ambushed by the slavers. I got captured."

Then, when Kaidan gives me an odd look, I realize just how ridicules I made it sound with the way I described it. What is it with me and ruining decent plans?

"Right. I guess that explains it, kid." – He says.

What? Kid? You've got to be kidding me! Wait, no… _He's_ already doing it! I'm twenty for crying out loud! And he's not even all that older!

"Anyway, since you seem to be able enough to walk, you should probably join up with the evacuees. The first batch is going in less than an hour." – He says.

Evacuees? I guess I'm still on Torfan.

"Where are they evacuating us to?" – I ask.

"Bekenstein. It's in the heart of Alliance territory." – He replies.

Wait… Wasn't Bekenstein that planet from Kasumi's loyalty mission?

"Once you exit this office, go left. At the end of the hall's the evacuation room. There they'll give you some clothes and credits, and then they'll load you up on an evacuation convoy. From there, they'll take you to the LZ, and from there it should be a two day's worth trip to Bekenstein." – Kaidan explains.

I simply nod and turn towards the door. As I exit he bids his farewell:

"Good luck, kid."

Damn it, Kaidan!

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So, there I was: Getting ready to be assembled for evacuation. The Alliance was kind enough to provide me with new clothing (thank goodness, those medical uniforms, or whatever they call them, were simply horrific – And that's coming from someone who isn't picky about his clothing) as well as a whole hundred credits. Gee, how generous! Ugh, I like the Alliance already…

The officer in charge of the evacuation was calling out names and sending them to a designated transport. Were the Makos they seemed to be assembling as an escort really necessary, though? I though fighting stopped yesterday!

"Johnson, Robert!" – The officer shouted. – "Transport 5!"

"Barclay, William! Transport 5!"

"Reed, Anna! Transport 5!"

And he continues for what seems to be an eternity. With the boredom of waiting, I turn to face the transports. I'm a bit amazed at how similar they look to Makos. Except they're far larger and don't appear to have a cannon, but a machine gun. I just hope they drive better… Argh, Mako mechanics! That brings back some memories.

"Pavlov, Sergei!" – The officer finally shouts out my name, snapping me out of the previous line of thought. – "Transport 6!"

And thus begins my struggle to get through the crowd and into the transport. The crowd's willingness to cooperate in this particular matter surprises me. I guess they realized that the faster we're done with the faster they can go home.

And soon enough, I find myself in front of the transport. Or rather, in front of the back entrance. Apparently I'm the third to enter, leaving some seven seats unfilled. The other passengers seem as eager to leave as I.

And after a minute or so, the other passengers arrive. With the last one's entry, the hatch closes. There, however, still was one more transport to go.

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And finally, after some delays, some more delays, and – You guessed it – Further delays, we exited the compound. That was thirty minutes ago.

The trip itself seemed boring enough. What these few days taught me was that boring was good. Boring meant you weren't about to get killed, or worse.

Still, I couldn't help but be a little suspicious about our escort. Five Makos seems a bit excessive, especially after the fightings allegedly ende-

And then, quite the loud explosion cuts me off. I can't make out what's happening, but I hear explosions, machine gun fire and accelerating Alliance vehicle.

Panic seems to be a common sight on the faces of my compatriot passengers. And if how I feel about any of this is any indication, so is mine.

And then, the entire vehicle seemed to be blasted by a quite intense white light and a deafening explosion. The Alliance driver addressed us over vehicle's intercom:

"We're hit! Primary fuel lines' are on fire! Everybody out!"

The driver obviously wasn't taught the finer points of subtlety, as the passengers, myself included, rushed towards the back ramp, trying to get it open. If there was a panic before, this was a full-scale riot!

Finally, someone managed to hit the "Open" button and the ramp, painfully slowly, opened. That didn't stop some poor bastards from trying to get out at the earliest opportunity. As a matter of fact those poor bastards were all ten of us.

Probably expecting an explosion, we rush as far away from the vehicle. Shots seem to be fired at us from all directions. This is _not _good.

The explosion, however, never came. Instead, the transport simply burst out in flames. A breathe a sigh of relief, however a short lived one. The remainder of the passengers – Just _four _of us – Took cover behind one of the Makos.

The Mako itself is spinning up its machine gun and letting it rip in the direction I presume that the enemy – Likely batarian slavers – Were coming from. We the passengers are too scared to do anything, and simply grateful for the cover.

Apparently seeing our predicament, I can see that an Alliance trooper orders two more to follow him and starts running toward our position. But long is the way between two Makos. As they run, a bullet impacts one of the troopers' heads, resulting in something my stomach finds vomit-worthy.

I, however, ignore the urge to vomit as that would be wholly inappropriate in the situation. By the time I got myself into control of my stomach, the troopers have already arrived and are now taking cover behind the Mako.

"Sir! Rodriguez is down!" – One of them says.

"I've noticed, Koslowsky!" – The other one replies, and then turns towards us, apparently to introduce himself. – "Gunnery Chief Armstrong, 3rd Platoon!"

"I thought we got the last of these bastards yesterday!" – I say, still trying to contain the contents of my stomach.

"Yeah, so did we." – He replies simply. – "Koslowsky! Give me a SITREP on the vehicles!"

Koslowsky leans out of cover for a second, and observes the situation, before all too eagerly returning to cover.

"All but one of the transports are down!" – He reports. – "Two Makos, including ours, still operational! And they both look banged up as hell!"

"What about the transport?" – Armstrong asks.

"Looks operational, as well as abandoned!" – Koslowsky says.

Armstrong apparently switches to his contemplative mode for a few seconds, and then he looks back up at Koslowsky.

"Koslowsky." – He says. – "You think you can make it to the transport?"

"If I had covering fire, yeah, just maybe!" – Koslowsky replies.

At this Armstrong raises his assault rifle and fiddles with settings a bit. Then a holographic representation of a flaming bullet appears at the gun's right side.

"Alright." – Armstrong says. – "If these batarians think they're going to hell, I'll send 'em some inferno."

"You're staying here?" – I ask incredulously.

"Look kid." – He says. – "Our comm. units are jammed, and we didn't ask the Brass for reinforcements. And those Makos won't hold out for much longer, not against that many batarians."

"But you'll be killed!" – I point out the obvious.

At this, Armstrong merely lets out a chuckle.

"Kid, I'm an Alliance Marine. Do you know who's like us?" – He says.

I merely stare at him blankly, not getting the reference.

"Damn few, and they're all dead!" – He answers proudly. – "Now, whenever you're ready Koslowsky."

"Ready, Sir!" – Koslowsky sounds off, before adding: "And Sir? It's been an honor serving with you."

To this, Armstrong merely rolls his eyes before saying:

"Koslowsky, don't get all mushy on me. I'm not dead _yet_." – He says. – "Now go!"

"Alright, everyone! On me!" – Koslowsky orders us. As he exits the cover, so do we.

And so we all start running towards the transport. The batarians are quick to take notice of us, as I hear dozens of bullets flying past us… Damn, it is only now that I realize how many civilian bodies lay on this makeshift battlefield… I guess not a lot of us will be getting off this planet.

Then all the sudden, I see a batarian approaching, ready to gun us down. Damn it! Couldn't have they just let us go?

Then the batarian bursts out in flames, and while his alien screams can still be heard, I can hear Armstrong – Barely – mouthing off something like:

"You want 'em? Try and get 'em!"

Alright… Now we're just some ten meters from the transports… Damn, I'm really out of shape… Should've practiced more back home…

But despite my lack of conditioning for this sort of ordeal, we manage to get to the transport.

We all rush to enter, seeking refuge in the damaged, but still operational-looking transport. As I am the last one to get in, I get a glimpse of Koslowsky trying to hold off the batarians on the outside.

"Koslowsky!" – I say. – "Get in!"

And just as he turns to me, as if to ask me what I said, his body yanks unnaturally. Firstly just once, then again, and again and again. Then he falls to the ground… It takes me a few seconds to realize what happened.

My god… Did I just cause a man's death?

But I don't have time for that. As I see multiple batarians approaching, I simply hit the button and the ramp starts to close up.

"T-The driver's dead!" – One of the passengers says. – "What are we going to do now?"

Oh great… One thing after another. Indeed, what are we going to do now? We're screwed.

"Does anyone here know how to drive?" – Another passenger, a woman, asks.

"I might!" – The fourth passenger sounds off.

"Great! Now get in there and drive us as far from this place as you can!" – I practically order.

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We… We were lucky. The batarians decided not to pursue us… Likely didn't consider us a worthy target. They did massacre all other civilians, so what were we, four of us? Four out of seventy… My god.

The other passengers seem to be having similar thoughts, if their faces are anything to go by.

"We're approaching the Alliance LZ thing… I think!" – Our driver announces. Lucky bastard. At least he has something to distract him from thinking about the past hour or so.

Damn it, though. Have I caused Koslowsky's death back there? I have distracted him from the enemy, but maybe he'd be overwhelmed anyway. I don't know. And I can't afford to drive myself crazy with those thoughts. Not know. Not on the slaughterhouse known as Torfan.

Huh. I've survived two massacres in two days… I'm lucky as hell. And given that I never shot a gun in my life, I guess that's my saving grace.

Then, out of nowhere, Alliance communications fills out the vehicle via the intercom:

"Unidentified transport, identify yourselves or we will be forced to destroy you."

At this the woman orders our driver:

"Come on! Identify us!"

"I-I-I don't know how!" – The driver admits.

"Stop!" – I say. – "Stop the truck!"

He wordlessly complies and I hit the ramp button.

"Unidentified transport, you've got ten seconds to reply." – The Alliance informs us.

"Ten." – They say.

Come on, bloodied ramp! Open up faster!

"Nine."

Oh come the hell on!

"Eight."

Just half way there? You've got to be kidding me.

"Seven."

Alright, just a second more…

"Six."

"Everyone out!" – The woman says.

"Five."

We quickly exit the transport with raised hands. After all we were through, we are _not _going to be killed by our own soldiers!

"Four." – The transport's intercom can be still heard.

As some soldiers spot us, and I can hear their assault rifles clicking as they are aimed at us.

"Three."

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot! We're humans!" – We yell out almost in unison.

"Identify yourselves!" – One of the soldiers demands.

"Two."

"We're the evacuees!" – I yell out.

From a combat-ready face they have put on, I can see a change to one of pure panic.

"One."

"DON'T FIRE! They're the refugees! I repeat, don't fire!" – Their, apparent leader yells over the comm.

And the zero never came. I can hear several sighs of relief. Mine included.

"Where were you?" – The squad leader asks. – "You were scheduled to come here twenty minutes ago! And where are the rest of transports? And what about Makos?"

"They're all dead." – I say simply, too tiered for complications at this point. – "We're the only ones who made it."

"What? How?" – He demands.

"Batarians." – I answer.

After a second, his face changes to one of sour knowing.

"Follow me. The shuttle's this way." – He says, bitterness evident in his voice. We are all too happy to oblige.

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And there we were, the Four Survivors of the First Evacuee Batch, rising triumphantly over the reddish-gray surface of Torfan. The shuttle take off was actually surprisingly smooth.

But there is no triumph here, at least not for me.

As we accelerate away from the surface and towards orbit, I take one last look of Torfan – And I bid it a farewell. It will not be missed.

Damn it, just… Damn it. I'm not ready for this… Being here, or anything, come to think of it. I mean, I've read some SI fanfics back home when I was bored, but… Did it prepare me for this at all? No.

I have no mysterious guides or chessmasters to guide me here and no purpose, as far as I can tell. I am left alone. Me, and the now-dirty clothes I have.

I guess I dealt with a part of it, at least. I finally accepted that I'm all alone. For whatever good that'll do.

**A/N: And there's the second chapter. Thanks for reading! I hope that it wasn't a major fall in the quality. **


	3. Wiles of Safety

**A/N: Whoa, trying to keep up the daily update thing's getting a bit hard.**

**But enough with my inane complaints. There are other "whoa" points I'd like to address here. Like the fact that I got 9 reviews, 257 hits, 6 favorites and 10 reviews in mere three days. You have no idea how much this inspires me to continue writing. You guys are simply awesome. All of you.**

**Now, onto the story. I must note that the "main cast", so to speak, of the story hasn't been yet introduced. They'll be introduced, however, by the end of the prologue part of the story, meaning either the next or the fifth chapter.**

**Now, without further ado…**

**Wiles of Safety**

My eyes flash open, revealing once more the rather bland texture of the roof above me. This has happened twice before, actually: Yesterday and the day before that. But somehow, there was something different about them today.

Still not bothering to move before figuring out that mystery, I decide to recap the past few days: Survived Torfan, had a two-day ride to Bekenstein on board an Alliance Cruiser with something that resembled food, first day at the refugee camp: Medical checkups. Second day at the refugee camp: Kafkaesque psychologist.

Ah, that's right! The tests finally ended yesterday, and we were finally free to roam Bekenstein besides the refugee camp.

And with a renewed vigor, I finally get up, albeit to the still existing protest of my traitorous left leg. Hmm, come to think of it, it _was _healing pretty rapidly. Guess I've got the futuristic medicine to thank for.

There was no need to change. The Alliance didn't bother providing us with a second set of clothes. Or additional credits. But if anything, the camp itself was decent, if understandably militaristic.

Many of the barracks-like quarters inhabitants are still sleeping from what I can see. I can't blame them. If their shrinks were anything like mine, it was a pretty tiring experience.

"_Are you sure you are who you say you are?" _

Damn, I grimace at the memory. I was asked ridicules questions like that for five hours. Five hours! I guess that the fact I didn't enter a psychotic episode qualified me sane enough in shrink's book.

And then, out of nowhere, yet somehow expected, comes the wake-up ringing of the alarms. Following it, I can hear at least a dozen equally loud groans. I merely sigh, and not completely in annoyance. This means that they're serving breakfast. Which, despite the quality of the meals (or rather, the lack of such), is still a good thing.

And so, I start walking out of the barracks and into the hallway. I can see the inhabitants of the other barracks joining me in my conquest of bread. Or rather, paste – Since they didn't bother serving actual food.

The crowd's actually orderly, and don't actually seem all too hastened to get to the mess hall. I'm unsure if this is the militarism of this place rubbing off, or the taste of the paste. Maybe a combination of both?

And while we continue walking toward the mess hall, I can notice a certain amount of better mood on the face of the survivors. At first, I'm puzzled by this, but soon enough I realize what's going on: For many of them, relatives and friends are coming to pick 'em up.

Not me, though. I have no relatives. Or friends, for that matter. And there goes my mood. Lovely.

In the mess, we each pick up the plastic plates, and the cooks pour us each our ration of the paste. I would note the taste of the thing, but I already did that like ten times since coming here, and it isn't improving, so I don't see any point to doing the same thing again, so I eat the thing in peace.

And the rest of the breakfast went without a single incident.

With breakfast out of the way, I could always explore Bekenstein. But right now, I simply don't feel like it, since there's little I can do without any credits. In the name of every deity in existence, I don't even have an omni-tool!

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And so I decided to go to the docks. Allegedly, the Platoon that came here with us was leaving, and without having anything better to do, I decided to watch the Platoon boarding shuttles and leaving.

That was two hours ago, and I still haven't come up with any sort of plan. Gah, I hate it when surviving a battlezone is easier than figuring out what to do next. I guess surviving the peace is going to be harder than surviving the war.

And while I did appreciate the alone-in-the-crowd feeling I got from staying out of the Platoon's way and watching them leave, I finally got bored and decided to listen in on some conversations. Not the kindest, most well-mannered thing to do, but mind you, I had a peace to survive!

I scanned the docks for anyone interesting… And certain woman attracted my attention. Hmm… Where have I seen that face? Nah, I'm probably just imagining it.

Still, she's close enough, so I listen in to her conversation with another trooper.

"… I'm telling you Dan, that's not the last of the batie slavers we'll see in a while." – She says.

"Well, I can hope." – Dan replied.

"No you can't. We're in the 3rd Platoon, remember?" – She retorts.

Dan just gives up, apparently, as he throws up his arms in the air and says while leaving:  
"Fine, fine! Way to be the party breaker, Ramirez!"

Wait a second, Ramirez? Hmm… Ramirez, was Ramirez not the name of that soldier that rescued me back on Torfan? And the face… Well, I'll be damned.

And now onto the question on whether or not I should approach her. Does she even remember me? I couldn't have been the only civilian on that mission.

Eh, what the hell. She's the closest thing to a friend I have here.

And so, I abandon my previous position, and start advancing towards her. Being a soldier, she notices this right away. At first I can see confusion written on her face, but few moments later it is replaced by a smirk.

"Well, well, well!" – She says. – "Is it not the Civvie I've saved back on Torfan!"

I too smirk at this. Heh, never before have I realized how good it is to have a mildly familiar face within sight!

"Glad to see you made it off that wretched planet!" – I reply.

"I know, right? So am I." – She says, only half-jokingly. – "Good to see you're in one piece too. I would've hated to see all that effort I put into keeping your ass alive was for nothing."

"It wasn't. The batarians ambushed us when we were evacuating, but I got through." – I say. – "Most of the others… Weren't so lucky."

As my smirk drops at this, so does hers.

"Yeah. I heard what happened to the first batch." – She replies. – "We'll make those bastards pay."

I guess I can't argue with that. But, I also have some quite current concerns she might be able to help me with.

"Hey, did you happen to hear any job offers or any way I could earn some credits?" – I ask.

"Sorry, nope." – She answers. – "I've heard how much the Brass gave you Civvies. Pathetic, if you ask me. I know we're in a recession, but still, what are hundred credits worth?"

Despite not previously being aware of this recession, I nod in agreement.

"Exactly." – I reply.

"You could always do an extranet search for jobs." – She points out, before realizing the crucial factor that prevented this. – "But of course, the batarians stripped you of yours and the Brass didn't instruct us to give you any."

I merely nod, not having anything useful to add to her statement. I could always point out that I never had an omni-tool to begin with, but I don't want to end up in a mental institution so that's a no-go.

She sighs, and closes her eyes before replying.

"Look, I can't help you with creds." – She says. – "But I _might _be able to help you with your omni-problems."

Wait a second… Did she just suggest giving me an omni-tool?

As if to answer my unasked question, she reaches to one of her armor's many pockets and pulls out a watch-like instrument and hands it to me.

"T-Thanks," – I reply, more than a little startled. – "But, why? Why help a stranger like me?"

She merely looks at me with a sad smirk before replying:

"I've followed protocol one time too many and got many of you civvies killed. If I get a chance to help, I'll take it." – She says, before continuing. – "Plus, don't thank me yet! Military-grade's a myth, that omni-tool's a piece of shit!"

I nod in thanks. I've seen my share of deaths in the past few days, but I don't really know what's it like to actually kill someone – So I don't really understand. And I hope never to – As much as I, thanks to Torfan, understand that's an inane hope.

Then an unknown voice sounds off from the distance:

"Ramirez! Get your ass here, your squad's leaving!"

Ramirez turned to face the source of the voice, and shouted back:

"Aye aye, Boss! Be right there!"

"Guess this means you've got to go." – I point out the obvious.

"I guess so." – She replies, before waking away.

"You stay safe out there!" – I yell after her.

"It's not like I've got much of a choice!" – She yells back, with the smallest bit of annoyance in her voice.

Well… That went far better than I expected. I place the omni-tool on my left wrist, the mechanism for doing so not much different from a watch. And suddenly, in what has to be the most glorious moment of my time here, the thing flickers to life, its orange light shining right into my eyes.

"Welcome, user! No accounts detected, please create one." – The plain text says simply and unceremoniously. Gah, a way to ruin the moment!

I guess the lack of accounts means the omni-tool was Ramirez's reserve. Good. I don't want Alliance Navy hunting me down because I happened to be given an omni-tool filled with military secrets.

Plus, Ramirez is likely to get in trouble for this alone. Though, come to think of it, that trouble will be nothing compared to the trouble I'm in, being displaced, well, here. Still, it'd be wrong not to acknowledge that Ramirez has been more than helpful, first with saving my life, and now this…

Now, I press the button saying "Create Account", and… The omni-tool turns red, with exclamation marks everywhere, and then closes off completely.

Oh my god, who programmed this damned thing? Microsoft?

As I restart the omni-tool with a push of an actual button on the tool's casing, I take notice of the logo. It's "Microware Incorporated". Ramirez wasn't kidding.

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Oh god, the skycar's about to land! It-It's coming in too fast! I can tell! This is when my luck finally runs out completely, and I get killed in a gruesome acci…

Wait. The thing just landed. And it's opening its doors. Whoa. Damn. I'm not doing that again if I can help it…

Alright, I guess it's time to step out and see that famous Apollo Square the extranet Codex entry of this planet bragged on about for several paragraphs. Oh, that reminds me. Nothing here is free. At all. To get access to the extranet for a week, I had to pay ten credits. And that was after I paid fifteen credits to upgrade my piece-of-shit omni-tool to an edition that actually doesn't crash every five seconds (the improvement is that it now crashes every five minutes).

And then I discovered that the Rapid Transit System wasn't just a gameplay element in the games but actually a fully automated taxi system. I was actually quite excited to try it out, and then as if to ruin the mood, I discovered that I have to pay twenty credits to go anywhere with it. That's 45 credits of my hefty capital of hundred credits spent already. Well, there goes my hope to visit that famous bar… Wait, what was it called? Galaxy? Universe? Something like that. Anyway, that ruined my hopes on getting my hands on some whiskey. And I don't even want to know how much a shot of the good old liver burner would cost me. I mean, I know there's a recession going on, or something, but this is ridicules.

Oh, enough with my rants and internal monologues – It's past time for me to face the Apollo Square.

And so, with as fluid of a motion as I can muster, I exit the skycar. My heart is still pounding like crazy from that landing, but nowhere near as bad as when I was running for the transport back on Torfan… Actually, I'd rather not remember that particular episode of my life, with the butchered civilians and sacrificing soldiers and all. Gah, I'm already doing it!

And, back to present, here I am – At the famed Apollo Square. I can say that it's nearly everything they said it would be! The place is _huge_! Far larger than any urban metropolitan square I've ever been! Huh, humanity certainly made some progress.

Skycars – Ugh – Are flying in the aerial "roads", countless humans roaming around, minding their own business, flashy ads all over the place, and the famous _Starcluster _Bar towering above it all. It's still day, but I can only imagine how spectacular it would look during night.

If I'm not careful with my credits, I won't have to imagine, though.

So, I'm here. Now all that's left is figuring out what to do. And to do that I have to determine my utmost problem; and that would be credits.

Now how do I get credits? I get a job. How do I get a job? I either search the extranet and sort out the frauds and phishing scams or I go to the Public Jobless Bureau and find myself an actual, scamless job. I choose the latter.

Huh. Searching for a job. Some five days after I got ripped from my life and transported to Torfan. I almost feel like I'm abandoning my former life and the hope of getting back there completely. But I can't afford that sentiment to get in the way of my better judgment. Not now, when I'm low on credits. Once I secure myself a constant stream of money, I'll worry about the rest.

With that tough choice out of the way, all I have to do is find out where the Bureau is located. And since I can't afford to pay for a map, I'll just ask around. Alright, generic random citizens, here I come!

So, whom do I ask? Maybe that man over by that walkway? No, seems too suspicious for some reason. That woman? No, looks too uncooperative. That average looking civilian right in front of me? He'll do just fine.

"Hey, excuse me!" – I yell out at him. – "Excuse me!"

He turns back to face me, giving himself a comfortable second before replying:

"Yes, how can I help you?"

"You see, it's my first time here on Bekenstein, so I can't find my way around. Could you point me to the Jobless Bureau?" – I ask.

"Sure thing." – He says. – "See the Starcluster Bar? Go to it, then turn left and walk for about a hundred meters. There you'll find the Bureau. Can't miss it."

"Thanks!" – I reply.

"No problem." – He says. – "Though you may want to change those clothes of yours."

Alright, now I'm torn between considering him a helpful one or an asshole. I mean come on, I get that military issued dirty clothes aren't fashionable, but there's no need to be a dick about it!

But whatever. One incident irrelevant to my current situation isn't enough to stop my march to employment and credits. So, what did he say? Take a left turn at the Starcluster Bar? Simple enough, for once.

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And in the future, alternate dimensions or whatever they still have long waiting lines? Didn't we humans fix _anything _besides technological primitivism? Couldn't have I been transported to some utopian moneyless society where I wouldn't have to wait through all of this?

"Next!" – Says the secretary to the guy in front of me. Argh, this is going to be a long wait. Are there this many unemployed on the Alliance's most industrialized colony or did these people come here in hopes of finding a job?

And about a minute later, much to my surprise, I see the man leaving the line, with a displeased look on the face. So much for the future equaling a utopia.

"Next!" – The secretary says once more.

I step forward hoping my conversation will go better than the other guy's apparently did.

"Good day, sir. How can I help you?" – The secretary says with a trained, uncaring voice.

"I'm looking for a job." – I reply simply.

"As are many these days." – She says as a matter-of-factly. – "Please extend your arm so I can scan your ID."

Oh, the ID chip crap again. Great, just what I need.

"Uh, you see, I'm not an Alliance citizen." – I say.

She looks upon me as if I was crazy.

"That will lower the already low amount of job opportunities." – She notes. – "Do you happen to have any galactically recognized degrees?"

Unless the schools I attended back home still count here…

"No, I don't." – I reply simply.

She simply nods before replying.

"That won't go to your favor." – She points out the obvious. – "Still, let me input that into the terminal. This might just happen to be your lucky day."

Yeah, that would be a radical change of my luck.  
I'm surprised at her surprised expression as she reads something off the holo-screen.

"It seems to be your lucky day, sir." – She says. – "I found one job offer."

"Just one?" – I ask incredulously.

"Two actually, but the second offer is from a bankrupt firm." – She replies nonchalantly. – "I'll transfer the relevant data to your omni-tool. Now, if you'd please open up your firewall…"

And I open up my omni-tool, hoping it won't crash on start. As the orange light flickers into existence, I see that it, for once, won't. Now, all that's left is to figure out how to open up the firewall.

…

And after roughly fifteen seconds of trying and failing, I can hear a tiered sigh coming from the secretary.

"Sir, if you'd please open up your firewall, I'd transfer the data." – She reminds me.

"Uhh, sorry ma'am." – I blurt out quickly. – "I recently bought this omni-tool model and I'm still not used to the interface."

Well, that's close enough to the truth. I can still hear at least a dozen groans of frustration coming from others in the line.

She, on the other hand sighs, and says:

"Just hand me over the thing, I'll open it up myself."

I quickly comply, taking off the tool from my left wrist and handing it over to her. She then proceeds to open up the firewall and transfer the data within five seconds. I would be thankful to her, were it not that she made me feel totally useless and idiotic.

As she hands me back the omni-tool, she notes:

"Microware model? You must be in quite the creds shortage."

"No kidding." – I reply. – "Thanks for the help."

"Just doing my job." – She replies. – "Next!"

And with that, I exit the waiting line, going back to the waiting area that was right behind the line.

Taking a seat on one of the currently unused chairs, I quickly reopen my omni-tool to check out offer. Alright, this should be simple... Okay, log me in. Okay, let's go into Recently Transferred Data… No, no! I don't want to upgrade to Microware PhantomX V23.54 for twenty credits, close, back into Recently Transferred Data. Oh there it is, obviously labeled "Job Offer".

Okay, I click open and let's see the offer… I hope it's good.

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**Bekenstein Pizza Industry Offer**

Bekenstein Pizza Industry is offering a job of a delivery man for all those interested.

**Wage:** 360 Credits (Monthly payment, fixed wage)

**Working Hour: **12 Hours (Possible overtime)

**Requirements: **Physical capability for working (determined during the job interview)

**Contact: **BKN-032-576/554-3257 (Omni-tool ID)

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360 credits _per month_? With the prices as high as they are, how am I supposed to survive with that? And twelve hour workday for that? What in the rotting hell?

If I wasn't screwed before, I'm completely screwed now. The refugee camp won't stay there forever, and the only job I can find is… I have no words to accurately describe it. No swearword in existence could do this situation justice, so I won't even bother to try.

So, I survived the massacres on Torfan _for this_? To starve to death? I guess I don't get any unemployment benefits since I'm not a citizen, so basically… I'm screwed. And the saddest thing is, I'll likely have to accept that miserable excuse for a job offer.

I close my omni-tool and simply let my head fall as much as my spine would allow it and then I simply stare at the floor for a few seconds before closing my eyes. How am I going to get through this? Is getting through this without resorting to crime even possible? Is that what how low I have fallen? To a criminal wanna-be?

I… I just need to rest for a second.

"I assume you're having trouble finding a job?" – A powerful voice suddenly booms over me.

I jump, and not a little. This guy just scared the living shit out of me! As I recover, I look at him, with suspicion. Why would he care?

"You could say so." – I reply, and I think I made the suspicion a bit too obvious in my voice, as for a split-second I can see a frown on his face.

"It is like that these days, ain't it?" – He says.

I merely nod.

"Look, I think I can help you with getting a job." – He says.

Oh great, now I've got Pizza Industry officials chasing me all over Bekenstein. Thanks life, that's _precisely _what I needed.

"If you're from the Bekenstein Pizza Industry…" – I begin, but that sentence doesn't get that far, as I get interrupted by an amused snort.

"Let me tell you this, the Pizza Industry is one company to which I don't belong!" – He says, a bit too cheerfully for my taste. Then again, I am in a sour mood. – "How about we go outside and I give you an offer?"

Hmm… This guy rubs me in all the wrong ways, but maybe he has a good offer, who knows?

"Alright." – I shrug, and get up at roughly the same time he does, and with a few dozen steps, outside we are.

"So, you said you had a job offer?" – I ask.

He shakes his head as he says:

"Not precisely me, but my boss does."

"I'm listening." – I reply.

"I'm from an organization that pays well and is now more in need of fresh blood than ever." – He says.

Hmm… Maybe I'm paranoid, but this is something that's simply too good to be true.

"What's the catch?" – I ask.

Instead of giving me a straight answer, he asks:

"Have you heard of a private security organization called the Blue Suns?"

… I'm being recruited by the Blue Suns?

"Wait a second, aren't you guys like illegal in Alliance space?" – I ask on a hunch.

"We were deemed illegal by the same government that has left you in poverty." – He says with a sigh. – "If you're interested, there's a rally of potential recruits at…" – He says while typing something in his omni-tool. – "This address."

As he says that, my omni-tool pings, informing me I got a new message.

"What makes you think I won't sell you out to the cops?" – I ask.

"And then do what, get hired by your Pizza Industry?" – He replies with his own question.

Apparently thinking he's done his job here, he leaves without any farewell, and I am left with conflicted thoughts on this whole thing.

Am I even seriously considering joining up with the Blue Suns? If Mass Effect 2 is anything to go by, they're far from being good guys. They're downright worst criminal scum, after perhaps batarian slavers. Or that mad salarian, Saleon.

But, as much as I hate to admit it, that merc made some good points. The alternative is going in for 360 credits a month and having a piss-poor life.

And his alternative was going out on the battlefield, fighting people whom I likely don't want to fight every day to earn varying amounts of money.

But as I have noted myself, I survived far easier on Torfan than here, on the peaceful Bekenstein…

I snort humorlessly, as I realize that there is, indeed, no going out of this situation without resorting to crime.

By the power of Whiskey, what am I going to do?

Is there even a choice here? Or can I merely do what I have to do: Survive?

**A/N: And, there you have it, the third chapter. I hope that it is on par with the rest. Also, thanks for reading!**


	4. Of Crucibles and Whiskey

**A/N: And there you have it. My first two-day chapter. Yes, I've discovered the art of procrastination, and I've got no excuse. **

**But, in the words of Harbinger, I merely delay the inevitable. Updating this story is my genetic destiny. Well, maybe not a genetic destiny, but you get the point.**

**Now, my whining aside, I must once again thank all those who take their time to read and/or review this story. It is that which keeps me writing, although my inner nihilism would have it that this is all pointless.**

**Now, without further ado…  
**

**Of Crucibles and Whiskey**

Bekenstein's capital is certainly a spectacular sight at night. Hell, it's not like that the city wasn't a sight to behold in daylight, but damn!

Of course, I'd be far more capable of enjoying it were it not for the fact that I was riding in a Rapid Transit vehicle… _Again_.

The Vehicle informs me that it's about to perform a landing. Great. That part again. Let's hope that I don't CRAA.. Aargh! That was way too close! And to think that people ride these things _every day_? Are they crazy?

But enough of that. I'm here, finally. Ready for whatever the Blue Suns have in store for me. Or rather, as ready as I'll ever be. As I'm still paranoid about this whole thing, I scan the area with my eyes, but due to the dark all I can discern is one entrance door and lots of darkness.

The doors of the skycar open up, and soon afterwards I climb out of the vehicle. Hmm… I still can't discern anything besides the door. Come to think of it, the door is the only source of light here, as its green hologram displays that it's open.

Several thoughts cross my mind, most notably that this is either a trap or I'm at the wrong location. Still, it couldn't hurt to check the doors.

With that I start walking towards them, with careful and calculated steps. You can't ever be too sure when dealing with something as shady as the Blue Suns.

With a few steps, I'm there. As I extend my arm to touch the holographic projection, indicating that I want to get in, I'm greeted by a clearly flanging voice of a turian:

"Who goes there, human?"

"I heard that Blue Suns are recruiting." – I answer with as much calm as I can, but I think fear is evident in my voice. What if the turian wasn't with the Blue Suns?

"He didn't answer the question, Legerian." – I am met with another, far softer voice – Which I guess belongs either to a human woman or an asari. – "Can I shoot him?"

I visibly flinch at this.

At this, the turian sighs heavily.

"Not this discussion again, Psycho…" – He says.

"Oh come on! You don't like humans!" – She argues.

"No I don't, but Sarge was explicit in his orders not to shoot the recruits." – The turian replies with annoyance evident in his voice.

"You're no fun." – She replies with a certain teasing edge in her voice.

"And you are a psychopath!" – The turian retorts.

"No kidding. Or did my name not give it away?" – She replies in a surprisingly cheerful voice. Wait, so her name is Psycho? What kind of a name is that? Or nickname, for that matter?

The turian doesn't even bother replying to her, and simply says:

"Come on, _human_." – He says, practically spitting out the word human. – "Get in!"

You don't need to say it twice! I quickly hit the holographic controls of the door, and as the doors open, I practically run in, rather not giving Psycho, whoever she is, a reason to shoot me.

The doors automatically close as I pass through, and as such I don't even get a glimpse of my two ambushers.

Well, that was a warm welcome if I ever saw one… And I'm glad it didn't turn out as warm as that Psycho woman would've liked. Overall, a _great _start to my career as a Blue Suns merc. Now, I simply have to wonder whether or not this unnecessarily long hallway I'm in is by any chance mined. That would cement the experience.

So, I guess I am here, at the Blue Suns enclave or whatever they have set up here. Every cell in my body is telling me to turn away. But I can't. This is the only option, really. I've searched and searched the extranet, trying to find an alternative – But to no avail.

Alliance Military would've been a nice option, but even if the Alliance immigration rules weren't so strict, the Alliance decided to have a "professional military", so I'd have to go through the elementary school all over again (even if that was possible), since my previous credentials aren't valid here and get accepted into the Military Gymnasium.

As not even education is free here, I'd have to pay for it all, and the only place I can be employed that I know of (and can reach, since I can't get off world with the 35 credits I got left) is Bekenstein Pizza Industry, which wouldn't allow me enough time for re-schooling. Overall, anything _but _the Blue Suns is simply not practical.

And so I start walking down the said hallway. There are doors on both sides of the walls, but they're all locked down, as witnessed by the red holograms displayed in front of them – Leaving me with the choice to go straight ahead, where the doors were still unlocked.

And after I open those doors, I am greeted by a fully armored Blue Suns merc, who just silently stares at me for a few seconds.

"Uhh, I was told there was a recruit rally here?" – I ask.

"Where the hell were you until now? The selection has already begun!" – He replies.

"What? I was told to come here at exactly this time!" – I say.

"Well, you're late! If you hurry, you might still make it, just hope you haven't pissed off the Centurion in charge." – He replies.

"Where to?" – I ask, starting to panic by a bit. My only chance at a decent employment and it looks like I blew it!

"Just through those doors! Hurry!" – He replies.

I, once again, practically run towards the doors, stopping for nothing. As the doors open, I am greeted by a group of about two dozen humans. The Centurion in question seemed to be human as well, but under that helmet I couldn't tell.

Hmm… I have yet to see a single batarian, yet Mass Effect 2 lead me to believe that they were quite common in the Blue Suns. Perhaps the recruiting division heard of what happened on Torfan and decided it would be bad for their PR if they showcased their batarian members? Gah, it's not like I'm complaining.

The Centurion ceases with his talks as he notices me enter.

"So, you're the infamous twentieth recruit that failed to show up? What took you so long?" – He asks in less than a friendly fashion, the mechanical distortion the helmet provides not helping.

"The Rapid Transit VI screwed up!" – I say. An untrue excuse, but frankly I have no idea what took me so long. Has the recruiter given me wrong information?

"Whatever." – The Centurion replies, both unimpressed and uncaring. – "As I was saying, you will pass the test in pairs. Those with best results will be accepted into the Blue Suns as apprentices, and will be taught on the fly by their squads. Now, before we begin, are there any questions?"

I think I'll let the others handle it for now. No need to embarrass myself by asking something that the Centurion already explained.

One recruit immediately raises a hand:

"You said that we'll be doing both personal and public Blue Suns work. What does this mean?"

"Good question." – Replied the Centurion. – "Most of the time, you and your squad will have to find contracts for yourselves, but from time to time the Blue Suns Command will task you with assignments that the Blue Suns as an organization has been contracted with."

"But the 'tax' rule stay no matter what?" – He inquired further.

"Yes, you have to give 20% of your bounty to the Command no matter what." – The Centurion answered.

Another hand was raised.

"You said we will be provided with uniform weapons and armor. Does this mean that we can't customize them?" – The recruit asked.

"As for the armor, yes and no. You can add your own personal touches to your armor but the color scheme and the logo have to stay." – The Centurion replied. – "We're the Blue Suns, the finest private army in existence, and we should be proud of it! As for the weapons, you get standardized guns. However, for a certain fee you can requisition upgrades and new guns from the Blue Suns' armories."

And so, the third hand was raised:  
"What should we expect to be a part of this test?" – He asks.

"You'll find out once you begin the test." – The Centurion replied. – "But I can tell you this: The longer you survive, the better you'll score. Once you're hit, you're considered dead."

Ah, so this is a test of survival? Torfan should prove more than adequate of a crucible for those types of ordeals. Let's just hope I learned the lessons of that slaughterhouse well.

A fourth arm is raised:

"I assume you'll be firing at us with concussion rounds?" – She asks.

"We won't kill you." – The Centurion replies. I can feel the tension rising within the room at this reply, mine included. It is not so much what he said, as much as it is how he said it. – "Any more questions?"

And the last query is submitted:

"How does the scoring system work?" – The recruit asks.

"Simple." – The Centurion replies. – "I will be monitoring your progress during the test. Those whom I deem worthy will be accepted. Those whom I don't, thanks for your cooperation but the Blue Suns won't need your services."

"Is that all?" – The Centurion asks again. As no hands are raised, I take it as a sign that the Q&A is over.

"Now, to see who the first pair is…" – The Centurion trails off, looking at his datapad, before announcing the first. – "Which one of you is Schmitz?"

A man at the fringes of the gathering raises his hand.

"That would be me!" – He yells out.

"Go to the next room and prepare for the test." – The Centurion orders simply. – "Pavlov, sound off!"

What? Me? Already? What kind of a list does he have? What happened to Q and R? Why is it going backwards from S? Why not… Gah, never mind.

I raise my hand, and try to sound confident I say:  
"That's me!"

The Centurion looks at me for a second before chuckling.

"Let's hope you aren't late to dodge a shot!" – He says. Why don't I find his sense of humor amusing? – "Go to the next room. The rest of you will have to wait for your turns.

And so, I head towards the same room Schmitz went.

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"So… Schmitz?" – I say, trying to start an introductory conversation with my teammate-to-be.

"Herrmann Schmitz." – He replies. – "But just call me Herrmann. Everyone does anyway. Pavlov?"

"Just call me Sergei." – I say.

"Alright… Sergei." – He acknowledges. – "Are you ready?"

I inspect the armor I put onto myself again. It's not a full-body armor, but rather resembles a 21st Century ballistic vest. I don't want to know why we need it. But yeah, I'm ready.

"Ready and – Hopefully – Able." – I reply.

"Alright then, let's go." – He says.

We pass through the open doors, and are greeted by a large room filled with crates arranged in what I think is a makeshift training ground. By the looks of it, this was a hanger before the Blue Suns took over. Hmm… Thinking of it now, the layout of the building now makes a bit more sense.

"Now that you're finally here," – Booms the Centurion's voice over a… Loudspeaker? Classy. – "We can finally get on with the test."

As I doubt that the Centurion would listen to anything I have to say, I keep my mouth shut. I can see that Schmitz is in a similar predicament.

"Your goal here is to survive as long as possible against actual Blue Suns employees." – He continues. – "They have been instructed not to give you any quarter, so don't expect any pity or mercy. Besides the survival time, teamwork and adaptation skills also count as a plus."

"Simple enough in words, I hope the practice is not dissimilar to this." – I hear Schmitz say.

"The test begins in ten seconds." – The Centurion informs us.

"We should take cover." – I inform Schmitz, recalling my experiences back on Torfan.

"Any suggestions?" – He asks.

"See those crates?" – I ask, pointing at the two crates that overlooked the center of the room. – "We should take cover by either side. That should give us a decent enough overlook of the room!"

"Right!" – He replies and starts running towards a crate. I, naturally, start running towards the other one. And then, a loud alarm sounds off from the loudspeaker, likely indicating that the mercs have entered the room.

As I reach my crate a few seconds later, I ask Schmitz:

"Do you see anything?"

"I see only too much, my friend!" – He replies. – "I-I think that there are five of them, from what I can see!"

Five to unarmed two. Those weren't the best of odds, but I faced down far more batarian slavers and lived – Then again, these mercs were likely far better trained than mere slavers.

"I-I think they seen me! They're headed right for my crate!" – He informs me, panic evident in his voice.

Five of them headed for his crate? It was three meters away from mine, and both were the size of a cargo shipping container. They were good cover, but cover that was about to be blown.

Hmm… They seem to have spotted him, but not me. I could always try to form a nice little distraction, giving Schmitz the chance to escape, using the far right container row, allowing me to do the same on the left. That'll split them up, giving us a greater chance of survival.

"Stay here!" – I practically order him.

"What? They'll be here in a second!" – He asks incredulously.

"When they come, I'll distract them! Then you'll escape using those containers on the right, and I'll do the same on the left!" – I explain. – "How close?"

"T-They're roughly ten meters from here!" – He replies. – "Correction: More like five!"

"Keep it steady…" – I order in a suddenly less audible voice.

He merely nods, visibly shaking. I have to wonder, if he's so afraid, why did he sign up to be a merc?

Then the mercs burst through into my line of sight, aiming at Schmitz and completely oblivious to me.

"Hey, idiots! Over here!" – I shout out to them, causing them to flinch and turn, breaking aim of Schmitz. He, on the other hand, uses this to run like hell for the right crates.

Oh crap, now they're aiming at me! Now would be a very good time to run! As I turn, several of them take inaccurate pot-shots at me, luckily for me, missing. The bullets explode like concussive shots from Mass Effect 2 on impact. At least I know I'm not being targeted by the real deal.

I turn around the corner of the container, and run for the crates, the mercs follow suit, still firing from the hip. So much for professionalism – Wait, did that round pass me by several inches? I turn around to see that there are three mercs pursuing me – Meaning two for Schmitz – One of them is standing back and playing a marksman. I guess I dismissed them too soon.

I zig-zag by the crates and run as hell for the last crate in the row, hoping to take cover and have a few seconds to catch a breath and reassess the situation, since right now I have little way of knowing what's happening on either front.

Shots continue to be fired all around me. Where did these mercs learn how to shoot? In Stormtrooper Marksmanship Academy? Let's just hope I haven't jinxed i-

Something hits my leg, and the next I know my entire body is convulsing as electricity runs through it. Before I can realize what the hell just happened, I find myself lying on the floor, the electric discharge stopping roughly at the same time when I felt no longer able to move.

"We have him!" – I hear one of the mercs say.

"Secure him!" – Their apparent leader ordered before speaking into his comm. unit. – "You got the one, guys?"

"He's pinned, but still struggling!" – I hear a distorted voice reply. – "Wait! He's making a run for it! Get him!"

"Repeat, do you have him or not?" – The increasingly impatient merc above me asks.

It takes a few seconds, but the other merc replies:

"We got him secure, boss!"

"Help him back onto his feet!" – The merc leader orders, and his subordinates comply.

He then turns to me, neither particularly impressed nor insulted at my attempt at tactics. At least I think so, due to that helmet I can't really tell.

"You should head back to the Centurion." – He says simply. – "My men and I will go and prepare for the next set of recruits."

I simply nod, the electric charge – Which I think came from my "ballistic vest" – Not making me particularly talkative. With the mercs retreating back into their little room, I start walking back towards the entrance. It's not that far a way, actually. Merely some thirty meters. I guess I didn't make it very far. And chances are I screwed up my only chance for decent employment.

Not so far from the entrance, I meet up with Schmitz, who is apparently in a similar mood. We both wordlessly enter the transitional hallway between the hanger and the room the rest of the recruits are, finding once more the benches where we found the self-shock armor, both of us eagerly taking it off, afterwards we head towards the door, after which we are greeted by the same room we came from.

"So, you're back." – The Centurion notes. – "Jackson, Mendoza! Prepare for your test!"

Turning back towards us, the Centurion continues:

"That which you two pulled was reckless, but it at least showed that unlike those four from the last batch, you got capability for tactical thinking." – He says. I presume the vagueness is intentional for the sake of the other recruits. – "In cause you're wondering, you lasted roughly sixteen seconds."

Seeing that we're still quiet, he continues his monologue:

"It's hardly the best I've seen. It's hardly even good. You're no soldiers." – He says. – "But perhaps you can be molded into ones. You're accepted. Barely."

Despite the intended harshness of the sentence, I can't help but smirk. I'm finally not jobless! Employed in a criminal merc organization, mind you, but at least I won't starve to death working for the Pizza Industry – The irony of such situation not being lost on me.

"Since we already have your omni-tool ID's, you'll be contacted by your new squad tomorrow." – He finishes.

As Schmitz decided not to say anything but merely nod, I do the same. After a few seconds of silence, Schmitz however speaks up after all:

"I believe you mentioned that we would be getting an acceptance fee upon entrance?" – He asks, hiding a request in the question.

An acceptance fee? Of Credits? I wonder why no one told me about _that…_

"Ah, yes, that." – The Centurion stumbles. He really hoped that my friend Schmitz forgot about our money, eh? – "Here you have it, five hundred credits each."

And he unceremoniously shoves us each a credit chit. Five hundred credits? I think my mouth gapes a little at the seemingly obscene amount of money I have. Schmitz, seemingly satisfied, heads towards the exit, and I, having nothing better to do, join him.

"So, you are going somewhere?" – I ask.

"Yes, I just don't know where yet." – He replies.

"How about that club, Starcluster?" – I suggest.

"If I could afford to spend the money I have, I would go gladly, but as the situation is now, I can't." – He replies.

"I, on the other hand, can afford to spend a hundred or so creds now that I have a permanent job." – I say.

He snorts and turns to me before saying:

"Why would you buy me a drink?"

"I figured, since we're going to be squadmates I might as well get to know you, since you know, I'll be counting on you to keep enemies off my back?" – I argue, trying not to be insulted by his suspicion – As hypocritical as that would be.

He looks at me for a few seconds and answers:

"Right, I apologize. It's just that everyone on this planet has tried to deceive me and rob me since I got here."

"Think nothing of it." – I reply. – "Now, let's go get some drinks."

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And so we enter the famed Starcluster Bar that towers over the Apollo Square. If extranet is anything to go by, it is a place of scheming, deceit, lies and damn good whiskey.

The first thing one can notice upon entering the Bar is that the music is _not_ the strong point here. It is yet another generic techno track the likes of which can be heard in Afterlife ingame… Heh, to think this once was a simple game.

Which leads me to wonder... So far, the canon of the game has proven to be the reality here, so does this mean that the whole Catalyst crap at the end of the third game will happen here as well? I guess only time will tell.

Back to the present, this place is god damned huge! And it also seems to have asari dancers. Not strip-dancers you'd see in Chora's Den or Afterlife, since these seemed to actually know how to dance and still had their clothes on, for the most part.

Anyway, we seek out the nearest unused barstools – Of what has to be several hundred there are displaced all over this huge building. It's as if they took a hundred bars and put them in the same room. Misplaced fame at its best. Who knows, perhaps this is considered impressive by modern architectural standards, but it isn't impressing me.

As we take our seats, a bartender approaches us, and asks:  
"So what will it be for you guys?"

"Scotch, straight up." – I say.

"What about you?" – The bartender asks Schmitz.

"Just water." – He replies.

I look at him with an incredulous expression.  
"Just water? Really?" – I say. – "Come on, we're supposed to be celebrating!"

"No thanks, I like my liver intact." – He replies.

"Oh come on! Just this once!" – I say.

"You're not going to let this go, are you?" – He asks, realizing my intentions.

"That I'm not." – I reply.

"Fine!" – He says, obviously not all too happy with the situation. – "Bartender! Bring me whatever he is having, preferably in the smallest glass possible!"

The bartender shakes her head as she turns to go and get our drinks.

After a few moment's silence, I feel the need to inquire:

"Why do you care so much about liver's intactness? Are a doctor or something?" – I say, jokingly.

The joke is seemingly lost on him, as he replies:

"As a matter of fact, yes I am."

I stare at him for a few seconds, before deciding that he's bluffing after all.

"You had me there for a second!" – I say.

"I wasn't joking." – He replies with a certain amount of hostility in his voice, as if I insulted him.

"Wait…" – I begin my question, as little of this makes sense to me now. – "If you are a doctor, why did you decide to join the Blue Suns?"

He looks at me carefully, as if trying to find an unseen motivation for my question, but after a few seconds gives up.

"I suppose if I'm going to trust you to keep me alive, there's no harm in telling you." – He says. – "You see, back when the hyperinflation was still reigning…"

Wait, the hyperinflation? What do economics have to do about this and when did this hyperinflation even happen?

"Wait, the hyperinflation?" – I ask, not knowing what the hell he was talking about.

"Yes, the hyperinflation." – He says, while looking at me as if I was crazy. – "Were you living under a rock for the past two years?"

As much of a lie this is…

"I've been living in Terminus, actually." – I say. – "I had ninety-nine problems; a hyperinflation wasn't one of them."

The bartender returns to us with our drinks, and with a swift motion places them on the bar counter.

"Sorry to interrupt your, ah, discussion, but that'll be 75 credits." – She says.

I lazily open up my omni-tool and transfer the funds to an unused credit chit before handing it over to bartender, who then promptly leaves.

I pick up my drink – In the obviously larger glass and Schmitz does the same.

In a few moments the glasses collide and couple of cheers can be heard. I then bring the glass to my mouth and take a sip. Ah, it is good to be reunited with my age-old friend! Now not even the Reapers themselves stand a chance against me! Well… Maybe they do, but that's beside the point.

From my new squadmate I hear a couple of coughs after he pours down what little of scotch he has.

"How can you drink this thing?" – He asks.

I merely let out a chuckle before replying:  
"It's an acquired taste, Schmitz."

"I thought I told you to call me Herrmann." – He notes.

"Sorry, just a bad habit… Herrmann." – I say.

"Right." – He replies. – "I can't think of any possible reason anyone in their right mind would start drinking this!"

"I can think of a few." – I reply, remembering the day I was first introduced to Whiskey. – "But anyway, you were talking something about a hyperinflation?"

"Yes." – He replies. – "You heard of the attack on Elysium two years ago, right?"

I nod.

"Well, it turns out the Alliance had invested quite heavily into colonization. Once the attack happened, the investors panicked." – He continues. – "One poor decision lead to another and the next thing we knew, there was chaos. Skyrocketing poverty, rioting on the streets, et cetera."

"It doesn't seem so bad now." – I note.

"That's because it is not." – He replies. – "You are witnessing the recovery."

"So, about why you're here…" – I try to steer the discussion back towards its origins.

"You see, back when the hyperinflation first hit, my family has gone into great lengths to assure that my studies don't stop because of it. They went into a ridiculously high debt." – He continues his story. – "So now, that we have to pay it all, we got lucky and my studies ended. The only problem is, I couldn't find a job anywhere."

"So you resorted to Blue Suns?" – I ask.

"Not right away, no." – He replies. – "But I got offered a good job – One I soon learned was too good to be true. Long story short, I got scammed and robbed. The next thing I knew, I was calling my family for more money so that I could get off this planet since I couldn't find a job."

"They couldn't send you any?" – I say.

"In a manner of speaking." – He continues. – "It seems the debt collectors decided to pay an early visit. My family didn't have anything to pay with… So they paid with our home."

He turns back to me and shoots me a stern look.

"And _that's _why I can't afford to spend a single credit on trivialities." – He concludes. – "My family is back there, on Earth in the slums, barely surviving. Every credit counts."

And now, I feel guilty for suggesting that we come here. What his family's been through… That's some rough shit. Perhaps even worse than what I've been through, at least life had the decency to tear me out of my life completely… For Schmitz, however, that wasn't the case, as he was left caring for a family he likely couldn't even see anymore.

Come to think of my family… Nah, not the place nor the time.

I raise my glass and say:

"To your family, Herrmann."

And then proceed to gulp down the remainder of the liquid.

**A/N: And there you have it, the first two-dayer. It isn't anything spectacularly long, but it covers its thematic. I hope. The future, however, will likely witness some mega-chapters being made, but that's the future.**

**Thanks for reading! **


	5. Introductions 'n' Nerves

**A/N: And I managed to get my one day upload back into order… Hopefully, it will fare better than the Emperor's attempt to bring the Death Star back into working order.**

**Oh, and remember a few chapters back when I was impressed with 300-esque hits? It got tripled. Reviews? Tripled. Favorites and alerts? Tripled. You guys never cease to amaze me with how awesome you are. Thanks for all the support with this project of mine!**

**Now, without further ado...  
**

**Introductions 'n' Nerves**

Ugh, I hate hangovers… Like there's something to like about them anyway. What happened anyway? Last thing I remember I was going into that club with Herrmann, and then… Gah, that pretty much explains it – Though it fails pretty miserably why I feel like I'm lying on concrete.

I open my eyes during a simultaneous effort to get myself in a sitting position, only to be greeted by what appears to be a futuristic alleyway, that and a voice of my new acquaintance.

"Welcome back to the world of living." – He greets me.

"What the hell happened…? How much did I drink?" – I ask.

"Well, here is the run-down." – He replies. – "Despite my well-intentioned warnings, you decided to drink on until you fried what little remains of your liver, and before you ask again, I lost count at eight glasses."

"How did we…" – I begin my next inquiry.

"Get here?" – He continues for me. – "Once you got drunk enough you made a pretty memorable ruckus. The bouncers decided they no longer wanted you as a customer, but as a punching bag."

"So they kicked us out?" – I say.

"Not 'us', but rather you." – He says. – "I left when the bouncers approached you."

"You abandoned me?" – I ask incredulously. And I'm supposed to trust this man not to leave me behind when the things go south?

"No, no!" – He starts a sarcastic defense. – "I stayed true to your _brilliant _teachings! I used your distraction to escape!"

I sigh.

"Say what you will about my plans, but that one actually got us into the Blue Suns." – I reply.

"That only happened because I managed to survive for a few more seconds than you." – He retorts.

"And you only managed to do that because I came up with the plan in the first place!" – I continue the argument, not being able to leave well enough alone. – "If I remember correctly, you were panicking!"

"Yes, and that is because I noted what a brilliant strategist you were!" – He retorts once more. – "And either way, it was because of I that we got our 'barely passable' rating!"

I merely shake my head. I didn't really feel like arguing while I had a hangover.

"Why are we even arguing this?" – I ask, truly curious.

"What makes you believe that I know?" – He replies with a question.

I groan at this, causing him to smirk. I can see that he's merely pulling my leg. So instead of continuing with this useless line of discussion, I decide to ask him about something that's actually useful.

"Any news about our new squad?" – I say.

"As a matter of fact, yes." – He replies. – "While you were busy drunkenly trying to coerce the bouncers into overthrowing the manager, I actually paid attention to all the annoying omni-tool pinging and messages."

Wait, I did _what_? Never mind, what Herrmann has seems to be far more important.

"We received a message detailing where to meet with a member of the squad," – Herrmann continues. – "Who will take us to the remainder of the squad."

"Oh?" – I try to get him to elaborate a bit more.

"We're supposed to meet them in Fjord Plaza. " – He elaborates. – "In oh, about twenty minutes or so?"

Remembering how last time I was late didn't help out my job prospects – On the contrary, I nearly lost the job – I'm not so eager to repeat that experience.

"We have to go now!" – I yell out.

"Oh, don't worry!" – He reassures me. – "It's not far away."

"Either way, better early than late." – I counter, quickly getting back up to my feet.

"True." – He admits. – "Follow me!"

And I do so. I note that the alleyway looks strangely abandoned, but if the sky's any indicator, it's still barely dawn. But, either way, I have to ask…

"I tried to convince the bouncers to overthrow the manager?" – I ask.

"That you did." – Herrmann replies. – "Apparently, your drunk self is a revolutionary."

Huh, that's strange. During my previous binge drinking hours I usually didn't have any revolutionary tendencies. Perhaps this whole environment is rubbing off on me?

Either way, I follow Herrmann out of the alley… Only to be greeted by the lovely sight of my old nemesis: Rapid Transit.

"Uh… Can't we, like, go on foot?" – I ask.

"Unless you can walk a dozen kilometers in under twenty minutes, I would say that isn't a viable option." – He replies.

As the doors of the skycar open up, I say:

"I hate these things…"

Herrmann throws me an odd look and asks:

"Besides the cost, what is there to hate?"

I get in one of the passenger seats and say:  
"It's a crash-o-maker! That VI driver's gonna kill me one of these days!"

As he enters into the other, he replies with a chuckle:  
"You have little reason to worry, I am not of such luck."

Alright, fair enough, I guess I'm not the best company, but he's just being an asshole about it! Someone's death by incompetent skycar VI is not a subject to joke about!

"Now," – He continues. – "Pay our fee, if you happen to have any money left."

I bring up my omni-tool, ready to transfer my funds, and then I take notice of my financial assets: Just 98 credits of the once-glorious sum of 535. Damn, my drinking is indeed going to kill me one day! By starvation, no less!

"So, do you have the credits or not?" – Herrmann asks.

"I do." – I reply with a sigh, and proceed to rid myself of another twenty credits.

"Fjord Plaza!" – I hear Herrmann order the on-board VI.

And so, in a few unsubtle moves, the skycar prepares to rid me of a few more of my alcohol-strained nerves.

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After _yet another _nerve-wrecking landing, Herrmann and I climb out of the skycar. And there it is. The Fjord Plaza. A nonsensical name, given that fjords have next to nothing to do with plazas. I guess they ran out of names to give, so they just went and named it something completely random.

The first impression I get is that this place is a lot smaller that Apollo Square. And there's no Starcluster Bar in the background. As I have no idea what we are supposed to down, I ask Herrmann:

"Do you have an idea of what we're supposed to be doing now?"

"Now we wait." – He replies simply.

I decide to stand clear of the skycar, just in case someone else decides they want to take a ride in the damned thing. I still don't get how people here can do it every day!

I look over the plaza – Having nothing better to do. I see that, as it is still dawn, there aren't that many people here. A few guys here, a few there, but the place is mostly peaceful and abandoned.

Wait, is that an asari there? Definitely blue skin and definitely female-looking. This has to be the first alien I've seen on Bekenstein, or anything non-human besides the batarians. Huh. Although I got used to seeing asari while back when this was all something I played when I was bored, it was still truly strange to see an asari that's not made out of pixels on the screen. She has her omni-tool open and seems to be looking in our general direction.

Hmm… She was in civilian clothes and from what I know asari are generally Eclipse employees, but could this possibly be our contact?

"Herrmann," – I ask my squadmate. – "You think that's our contact?"

He looks for a few moments at the asari in question, before replying:

"From what I know, asari tend to prefer the Eclipse to the Blue Suns." – He says. – "It was founded by one of their own, after all."

The asari, as if to prove him wrong, closes her omni-tool and starts walking towards us.

"Though your speculation might just prove to be right." – He adds to his previous sentence.

As she gets near enough to speak without being too loud to not stand out, she mouths off to us:

"So you're our new squaddies?" – She says with a grin all over her face. I have absolutely no idea why she's grinning. Without giving us a chance to reply, she adds: "Follow me!"

And, not like we have any choice, we indeed do. I can't help but notice something, though. That voice is awfully familiar? I'm probably just imagining it. Then, as if listening in on my thoughts, Herrmann turns to me and says:

"I think I have heard that voice somewhere before…"

Damn it, my paranoid delusions are infectious! And the other thing I can't help but notice is her height. She's a bit shorter than me and I'm not even that high to begin with. Not someone you'd expect to join the mercs. Then again, until a few days ago, neither was I.

"No need to whisper." – She says. Damn it, Herrmann! You had to give away my paranoid delusions, didn't you! – "I can hear perfectly what you're sayin'."

"Then perhaps you could address my statement?" – Herrmann insists.

"'F course you heard me before!" – The asari replies… Hmm, that cheerfulness is a bit déjà vu inducing… - "Hint: I and a turian that's no fun were guards somewhere you recently were."

A turian that's no… Wait a second!

"You're Psycho!" – I practically yell, attracting a few curious glances from nearby civilians.

She turns towards me with the ever-present grin and replies:

"The one and only!" – She says cheerfully. – "But try to keep it down."

Oh, great. This is just simply great. I got into the same as the psychopathic asari that wanted to kill me and an anti-human turian. All that's lacking is that I get stuck being commanded by a batarian, and the experience will be complete, the Blue Suns way!

"Get in!" – She orders pointing at a skycar.

Herrmann does so with less hesitation than I. I guess Psycho didn't threaten him. But in the end, I have little choice. I'm an employee of the Blue Suns. And so, I get in the back seat – As Herrmann has already occupied the front passenger one.

As the skycar lurches upwards, I feel even less safe with Psycho being the driver rather than the VI. Somehow, someone who has threatened to kill me being the driver does not inspire confidence in me.

As a street passes after street, nothing but silence fills the skycar. After apparently getting bored, Psycho is the one to break it.

"Pavlov," – She addresses me. – "I ran a background check on your omni-tool's ID.

"Oh?" – I inquire, truly having no idea why she was even saying this.

"I found somethin' curious." – She continues, though boredom still drips from her voice. – "Your omni-tool's registered to military."

I blink at her unasked question. Just how did she manage to find that out? Then again, I'm practically crippled when it comes to using an omni-tool, so who knows what someone skilled with it can do?

"Uh, yeah…" – I begin. Damn it, I never was good at doing this kind of crap! – "You see, this omni-tool was given to me by a friend from the military back at the refugee camp."

"Refugee camp?" – She asks, suddenly all curious. – "Ya mean you were on Torfan?"

"You never did mention this." – Herrmann notes, suddenly joining in on the conversation.

I had to mention the refugee camp, didn't I? Even though merely saying it was a gift from a military friend would've likely sufficed…

"Uhh, yeah." – I begin. Damn it, I was never good at this crap! – "I got captured by batarians and taken to Torfan. Let's just say I carry no fond memories of that."

"Torfan, huh?" – Psycho says, cheerfulness permanently replacing boredom in her voice. – "Sarge's just gonna love this!"

I don't even want to know why at this point… However, my mind tracks back to a previous question in my mind.

"No offense," – I begin. – "But aren't you a little short for a merc?"

She turns back towards me – While driving, none the less – And with a grin replies:

"Strongest explosives come in small charges!"

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The skycar descends for a landing on an obscure landing pad. Right now I just hope Psycho doesn't live up to her namesake and kills us during the landing. Perhaps her sense of self preservation will keep us alive. And hopefully she wi- ARGH! Was coming in at that speed really necessary?

"That driving was reckless!" – I say, receiving an odd look from Herrmann and nothing at all from Psycho who simply doesn't seem to care.

After we disembark the skycar, Psycho speaks up:

"Welcome to a Blue Suns safehouse!" – She says as shortly as she can. – "The rest of the squad's inside. C'mon!"

As we proceed towards the entrance, I take a note of the safehouse's exterior. It is… Unremarkable. Just as a safehouse should appear. The entrance itself was a simple door with a hologram control, currently showing up as red.

Psycho tapped the control and it – As expected – Failed to open. Unexpectedly, however, a voice began its transmission towards us:

"Yes, who is it?" – Came the quick inquiry of a high-pitched voice of what I could swear was a salarian.

"Meran, just open the doors." – Our asari squadmate ordered.

"About time you got back!" – Comes the reply, followed by a small ping alerting us of the doors opening.

Psycho enters and we follow her. We are greeted by stairs, and so begins our descent into the safehouse. After what appears like two floors down (not like one could tell, since there were no doors to speak of), we are greeted by yet another door, this one marked as openable.

Psycho, being the leader, opens up the door. The sight I am greeted with beyond the door surprises me. A sleeping turian in Blue Suns armor sitting on a chair, his weapons at the ready – I presume he's a guard. Maybe this is that Legerian guy Psycho was with before at the selection grounds?

Psycho then does something completely unexpected – She brings a single finger to her lips, as if telling us to keep quiet. Neither Herrmann nor me knowing better, we go along with this. Huh. Psycho didn't strike me as the caring, discrete type.

And then, she does something surprising again – Out of nowhere, she produces a pistol from her civilian robes. She then fiddles with the settings and what I recognize as armor-piercing ammo hologram shows up. What is she doing?

She then raises the pistol and aims at… The turian's head? What the fuck is she doing? I start to panic, and Herrmann simply looks at me in confusion.

She then squeezes the trigger and an all-powerful gunshot sounds off… And instead of a bloody heap I expected, a bit of plaster breaks off the wall.

The sleeping turian is awakened by this, and immediately, as if out of instinct, leaps towards Psycho, the gun being his primary target.

And in the narrow corridor, with quick and deliberate movement he quickly wrestles it out of her control and throws it further down the corridor. He quickly closes in for the kill, but Psycho elbows him, and thanks to her use of biotics the turian ends up back in his chair.

He then stares at Psycho for a few seconds, then at the gun and then the bullet hole. For what had to be the longest ten seconds he stays quiet. Then, apparently completely unprovoked, Psycho cracks up and starts laughing her ass off.

As Psycho's laughter is finally brought under control, he finally speaks up:

"Spirits, Psycho! You're crazy, you know that?"

The way he shrugged it off is like these kinds of incidents are daily happenings. All the sudden, I fear for my life.

"Just keeping you on your toes, Legerian." – She replies with her characteristic grin reappearing on her face.

"Keeping me on my toes?" – He yells, looking at Psycho sternly. – "You could've killed me!"

"Naah… I like playing with my food." – Psycho shrugs it off. – "It's impolite according to humans, but I'm not polite either."

Legerian merely shrugs and shakes his head. Then, a deep voice comes over his comm. unit:

"Legerian, report!" – The voice says. – "What the hell was that?"

Legerian gives Psycho another stern glance before replying:

"Nothing special, Sarge. It's just Psycho."

"Oh, for crying out loud!" – Sarge, apparently, replies. Then, the broadcast continues over Psycho's comm. – "Psycho, how many times have I told you not to pull those kinds of pranks?"

"Sarge, Legerian was sleepin' on the duty!" – Psycho defends herself in an ironic imitation of military professionalism.

"Psycho!" – Sarge continues. – "If you do this once more, I will strip you of your gun privileges and forbid you from equipping any!"

I merely blink at the strange disciplinary measure.

"Hey! There's no need to go to the extremes!" – Psycho hastily answers. Huh, that was surprisingly effective.

"Go on, _humans_, the Sergeant is waiting for you." – Legerian finally acknowledges our presence.

"C'mon." – Psycho merely confirms after picking her gun back up.

Herrmann and I silently proceed, wondering (at least in my case) what the hell we got ourselves into.

Not long afterwards, the corridor comes to an end in a form of a door, which now-silent Psycho quickly opens up. And we are greeted by a large room with several tables in it, a salarian – Presumably Meran – Working on some tech on one of them.

"Ah, Psycho. Good to see you didn't kill our recruits." – He greets us with his quick babble.

"Where's Sarge, Meran?" – The asari inquire.

"Will be here soon." – Meran replies quickly, before returning to whatever he was working on.

Psycho decides to takes this time to lean on the wall. Herrmann, having nothing to comment, keeps quiet. I, having no idea what I could possibly say, do the same.

Then one of the doors opens up, revealing a towering batarian. He turns towards us, and starts:

"Good day, men." – He says. – "I am your new commanding officer."

And I can feel my blood boil. I was under command. Of a _fucking batarian_.

But I snap out of it after a few seconds. I have to keep my cool. For now.

"Psycho you've already met. She's our Weapons Specialist." – He continues.

… But gets interrupted by Psycho herself:

"Make that Wanton Slaughter Specialist." – She says, apparently feeling the need to correct her – Gah, _our_ boss, unfortunately.

"_Weapons _Specialist." – The Sergeant, in turn, corrects Psycho while giving her a scolding look that would make a korgan think twice.

"That to the right is Meran Davelus, our Tech Expert." – The Sergeant continues. At his introduction, Meran doesn't even flinch, instead preferring to keep working.

"And you've, again, already met Kiral Legerian, our Designated Marksman." – He continues his monologue.

"And I," – He proudly announces. – "Am Sergeant Reviok."

"It is an honor to be serving with you, sir." – Herrmann says, apparently trying to be respectful. To a batarian, of all things!

The Sergeant merely nods, before adding:

"Your equipment and armor are waiting for you in Barracks B." – He says, before adding additionally: "I've seen your test records. You'll need to be trained ASAP, so both of you will be going on a little camping trip with Psycho later."

Then he turns to his insubordinate subordinate:  
"Speaking of Psycho, I need to talk with you in my office immediately."

Without looking for a nod of approval, he turns and heads for the office, Psycho merely looks at us and shrugs before following.

But it was time to go and see our equipment. As Herrmann spots the room with "Barracks B" inscription over it, we head towards it. As we enter, we are greeted by a small two-bunk bed room without any personal touches. Hmm… Presuming the other "barracks" is like this, Herrmann and I should be alone in this room. Good. Sharing a room with a psychotic asari, xenophobic turian and a _batarian_ is not high on my priority list.

There are four suitcases, two per the two apparently designated beds. However, armor isn't exactly on my mind. As soon the door closes, I simply shout out:  
"I can't believe this!"

Herrmann looks upon me in confusion.

"You cannot believe what, precisely?" – He asks.

"What do you mean, 'what precisely'?" – I ask incredulously. – "We're under command of a _batarian_!"

"And so what?" – He continues his inquiry, as apparently I didn't clear it up.

"What do you mean, so what?" – I ask, my voice sounding perhaps a little bit more hostile than I intended it. – "Have you heard of this little thing called Torfan? Or the Skyllian Blitz, for that matter?"

He snorts at this, and not in amusement.

"You know that he most likely did not participate in the Blitz, and most certainly didn't participate in the Torfan's defense?" – He asks me in return.

I merely look at him in disbelief for a few seconds, before replying:

"Of course you wouldn't understand. You weren't there." – I say, my words practically drenched in hostility. – "I _was _there, so let me tell you how your cheerful buddies batarians are: I watched them slaughter, maim and torture innocent civilians _after _they enslaved them. _That's _how they are. All of them."

He just shakes his head, before saying:

"You can't possibly judge an entire race by a single disgraceful group."

"You don't get it." – I retort. – "And I hope that you never do. I wouldn't wish Torfan to my worst enemies."

And with that, I turn around and exit the room, no longer taking any concern in the equipment. A small part of me condemns my behavior and words, but I quickly suppress it. The lessons of Torfan must not – Nay cannot be untaught.

I turn back into the "living room", for the lack of better description. I decide to seek out Meran. Out of the conversational choice of a psychotic asari, an anti-human turian and a batarian, he's my best chance for a decent conversation.

As I approach him, he notices me right away and asks:

"Why disturb me, human?"

I blink at this. Certainly not the greeting I expected.

"Just wanted to talk." – I explain.

"Talk? Talking is inefficient waste of time." – He replies. – "I always much preferred the asari ability to meld. Much more efficient."

"It isn't all about efficiency, Meran." – I point out.

"What?" – He asks in a salarian equivalent of incredulousness. – "Efficiency's necessary for evolutionary success. If it wasn't, we would've never developed technology, culture, anything!"

Oh great, I stumbled onto a pseudo-philosophical socio-biological discussion. Gah, anything that gets my mind off current happenings is good in my book.

"So, has anybody ever tried technologically replicating asari melds?" – I ask, not even completely sure what I'm asking.

"I worked on such project myself." – Meran recalls. – "Well, not exactly same, but there was a theoretical project on creating an implant capable of transmitting thoughts on peer-to-peer basis. Low level project of my youth, never got funding from the Union."

Wait, an implant capable of transmitting thoughts? How would that even work? Somehow I know that Meran's got a long and complicated answer that will be so complex that it'll blow my mind. Just what I need now…

"How would that even work? – I ask, half-curious half-feigned curious.

And the salarian begins, apparently recalling his youth with nostalgia begins his long explanation:

"Ah, you see, the implant, based on the thesis…"

And I know that I'll have something to keep my mind off present for at least a couple of hours.

**A/N: And there goes the fifth chapter. Our cast is finally introduced, and prologue part of the story is slowly coming to a close. **

**It would also seem that Sergei didn't escape Torfan without any scars after all.**

**Thanks for reading, and see you in the next chapter.**


	6. Practice Makes Perfect

**A/N: Welcome to Update Wars Episode VI: The Return of Two-dayers! **

**Well, it's actually technically a three-dayer, but that's a mere technicality.**

**Anyway, once again, thanks for all the hits and reviews!**

**Now, without further ado…  
**

**Practice Makes Perfect**

"… So project was deemed too radical by the Salarian Union." – Meran finally finishes his long-winded talk about his youth project. – "Anti-evolutionist cloacae!"

I'm pretty sure that was a blink I experienced when he yelled out the strange insult. I don't think I'll ever get why salarians use cloaca as an insult. I guess it has something to do with their biology.

And, after what has to be an hour of nonstop talking, I'm forced to recap what just happened. He was working on a thought transmitter, then he talked about the technical details of it which I couldn't understand if I studied them for the rest of my life – Hell, I'm barely capable of using an omni-tool – And then he told me the history of his failed attempts to get the Salarian Union to sponsor the project.

Overall, I've learned a thing or two about Meran: Talking is bad, working is good, talking about how to transcend talking is ever better. I don't think I'll ever get him.

I also learned a couple dozen new words.

But at the end of the day, Meran seemed like a friendly enough person, which was a nice change from the previous psychoticism and anti-human sentiment. He even tried to explain the tech talk to me when he saw that I didn't understand what the hell he was babbling about, though he later just gave up and babbled on.

As he realizes just how long he hasn't worked on his project, he exclaims:

"So much time wasted! See? Said that talking is inefficient."

He immediately – And wordlessly – turns back to his work. Given that I don't have anything better to do, I ask him:

"What are you working on?"

"Improvement for anti-armor munitions." – He replies quickly, not even looking away from his work. – "Would prefer to work in peace, human."

"Name's Pavlov, by the way." – I inform him as I leave.

"Names? Names too inefficient. Would prefer numbers." – I hear him mouth off as I leave the living room, as I've decided to call it.

I look at the overall layout. Besides the two barracks, there's also a door that leads towards the storage hanger, as the lettering above the doors would seem to indicate.

What I found stylish is that the living room didn't encompass the whole "door-wall", but that particular wall formed two corridors of sorts, leading to the mess hall and the commander's office.

Overall, the safehouse, while small, also possessed everything necessary to keep a small squad well armed and ready – At most, I would guess it could house up to two squads. I wonder how many safehouses such as this do the Blue Suns possess on Bekenstein?

Then I realize that I haven't eaten a single thing in a day. To the mess hall it is.

It's a short distance between me and the doors of the mess hall, so I traverse it in an extremely short time. After I hit the control, the door opens, revealing an unsurprisingly small room, with two tables, four chairs at each table and… Oh my god, that thing is _not _what I think it is, right?

I frantically run towards it to make sure it isn't. What I find out doesn't lift my mood. Yes, of course it is what I thought it was! It's a paste dispenser! Gah, I guess they had to find some way to fit a lot of food that wouldn't spoil in a small package. I guess the paste fits those requirements, even if it's adept at insulting taste buds.

I sigh. If this is all I have, then it'll have to do. I push the holographic button selecting a levo-acidic paste, and few seconds later the dispenser, well, dispenses a plate with said paste. By the looks of it, it's the same thing that passed for food at the refugee camp.

As I grab the plate, I take a guess that I should be glad I have anything at all to eat. Just a day ago I was facing the prospect of starvation. _While working for a Pizza Industry_, none the less.

I take a seat on the chair closest to me and begin my overdue meal. Yep, definitely the same thing I got back at the camp. Lovely.

Somewhere in the middle of my so-called meal, someone decides to ruin the peaceful environment I was in and open the doors of the mess hall. Presumably to get some breakfast themselves, it was morning after all.

"Pavlov," – I hear the ever-cheerful voice. – "Wrap up that breakfast of yours and get ready to move out!"

I look up to see Psycho, leaning against the wall where the door once was.

"Where are we going?" – I ask.

"To your trainin', of course!" – She replies.

And there goes my breakfast…

"I don't suppose I can finish the paste first?" – I ask, hoping that my presumptions are wrong.

"If ya like it so much, ya can bring it." – She answers. No thanks. – "But, hey, finish it up. I can't have you there complainin' 'bout starvation every five seconds."

As I continue my breakfast, she continues giving instructions:

"After you're done eating, grab the weapons but don't bring the armor and meet me back at the landing pad."

I dread at what this could mean. Are they going to equip us with the self-shock armor? Yet again?

"You're not going to give us the self-shock armor again, are you?" – I ask careful, finishing what little remains of the paste.

"I see you already met the Suns' official Training Armor." – She notes, not answering my question, at least not directly.

"You are, aren't you?" – I state, rather than ask.

With the already present smirk on her face growing into a full-blown grin, she slowly nods. I simply groan. Not that again!

"It's fun watching ya recruits squirm in that thing!" – She says.

"Trust me, it's not fun being the 'squirmer'." – I retort.

"I don't give a damn 'bout that!" – She replies. – "It simply makes my huntin' all the more enjoyable."

I shake my head, quickly eliminating the pitiful remains of the dreadful paste. It most certainly won't be missed.

Seeing that it is also a futile attempt to get Psycho to not train us with the self-shockers, I give up on that pursuit.

"When do we leave?" – I ask.

"Ten minutes." – She answers with her usual shortness. – "Oh, and tell Schmitz as well."

And then seeing that she had nothing more to do here, she turns to leave.

I still have one question that lingers on my mind and…

"Psycho?" – I say. – "Why did you threaten to kill me back at Blue Suns selection?"

She turns to me, and shrugs before replying:

"I dunno. Guess I was bored."

And with that she leaves, leaving me to ponder what kind of a trainer I just got.

Gah, the breakfast's already over, and I'm glad – Or rather would be, were it not that I have a scheduled training session with a psychotic asari. But I guess I may as well be go on and be done with it. If anything, military training – Or the closest thing I could get to actual military training – Will be a necessity in the years to come. That is, if somehow miraculously I don't find a way home, and somehow I don't think that nuclear fireball of Virmire that I read in that one fanfic is going to cut it.

Come to think of it, a death by a huge-ass nuke on an alien planet isn't the worst way to go out. So if it comes down to it… Or better yet, let's assure that it doesn't.

And with that I get up from the chair and exit through the recently-closed and now-reopened doors. With that, it's a few meter's walk towards Barracks B, where I presume Herrmann still is.

I punch the controls and the door opens… Revealing Herrmann – I presume – In a standard-issue Blue Suns trooper armor.

"So," – Familiar, yet distorted, voice of my acquaintance begins. – "What are your thoughts on this Blue Suns armor?"

"My thoughts are that you should get out of it." – I reply.

"Oh come on now." – He says. – "It took me thirty minutes to assemble this thing."

"Thirty minutes?" – I ask incredulously.

"One thing this thing did not come with is an instruction manual." – He explains. – "I had to guess where everything goes and where it doesn't go."

All right, I guess he at least tried to RTFM…

"Still, we got new orders." – I say. – "Psycho told us to meet her at the landing pad in ten minutes and that we should bring weapons, but not the armor."

He looks at me for a few seconds in what must be a disappointed look. I wouldn't know, behind those visors-for-eyes you can't really tell.

"Well, I suppose that it was restricting my movement anyway…" – He finally says and begins removing the armor's plates.

I, on the other hand, grab my weapons suitcase – Recognizing it as the one with imprinted Blue Suns logo, since the other one had imprinted the name of the manufacturer on it – And leave the room, leaving Herrmann to his own devices.

I quickly walk through the living room and into the entrance corridor. There I'm greeted by Legerian, who barely acknowledges my presence, and when he finally does, he mouths off something like:

"I hope you're less squishy than you look, _human_."

Giving him a taste of his own medicine, I ignore him. At least as far as it's apparent to him, as while passing by him I have to wonder what's up with him and the word 'human'.

Past Legerian and up the stairs I go. I've only been here for like an hour and I'm already leaving. Whatever happened to those days I used to have my own home in which I resided since birth?

Those questions are left unanswered as I'm greeted by Psycho, who's fiddling with some settings on the skycar, apparently out of boredom.

"You're early." – She notes as she looks up from her work. – "Where's Schmitz?"

"He'll be here in a few minutes." – I answer.

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"We've been heading in the same direction for the past twenty minutes, Psycho." – I note. – "Where on Earth could we be heading to?"

"Somewhere not on Earth?" – She offers.

I groan in response before saying:

"You know that's not what I meant."

"In my opinion, we seem to be headed outside of the city." – Herrmann offers.

As Psycho remains silent, I presume that Herrmann has the right answer.

"Why would we go outside of the city?" – I question.

"Oh, I dunno… Maybe the Blue Suns established training camps outside of the city?" – Psycho says. – "Y'know, in the remote forests, where no one would look for them?"

"Forests?" – I ask, surprised. – "Here, on Bekenstein?"

Herrmann gives me one of his odd looks and then speaks up:

"Yes, Bekenstein is roughly a fifth smaller than Earth and has a population of mere five-and-a-half million, spread out in two major cities." – He says. – "Most of the planet, with the exception of the major resource centers, has been left uninhabited and unexplored."

"So, the Suns decided to put 'bout twenty of their camps where no one would look for them and we could do our trainin' uninterrupted." – Psycho finishes.

"Just twenty?" – I ask. – "How many squads train at each camp?"

"Those are the twenty I know 'bout." – Psycho corrects me. – "Oh, and just one per camp."

"That's a very small amount of training spots for a whole planet." – I point out.

"Bekenstein's one of our smallest recruitment centers, actually." – Psycho explains. – "Most of 'em are primarily in Terminus."

"Right." – I answer simply.

I look out the window, not really having anything better to do, and see the last of the city clearing my view with increasing haste, likely a side-effect of Psycho's acceleration.

"You're transferrin' your creds to another account, why?" – Psycho asks, boredom once more in her voice

"Huh?" – I exclaim in surprise, not having idea what the hell Psycho's talking about.

"Talkin' with Schmitz, not you." – She replies.

I look at Herrmann to see that he is indeed fiddling with his omni-tool.

"I'm merely fulfilling my duty to those who let me get this far." – He replies. I know who he's referring to, though I doubt Psycho does. – "Since we presumably will not be in range of any extranet providers for at least few days."

Though I'd say that she doesn't get what Herrmann's talking about, she seems satisfied enough with the answer.

"I though Meran's supposed to be the tech expert on our team." – I de facto ask.

"He is." – Psycho replies. – "This is just his omni-tool programs working, not me."

Huh. So that incident few hours back…

"When you detected my omni-tool belonged to the military, it was actually one of Meran's programs?" – I ask.

"Yep." – She replies simply and efficiently.

I return my attention to the world outside and see that the urban metropolis has been replaced with a wasteland. Psycho talked about forests, yet this most certainly wasn't it. Perhaps wood is considered a valuable resource here as well and the forests that used to be here were chopped down? Gah, who knows?

As the skycar keeps accelerating, I am lead to wonder just how fast it can go. This thing is already moving way faster than that one skycar in Liar of the Shadow Broker... I guess _coincidences_ between the game and this… Whatever it is, had to end one day. Is this all a mere coincidence, though?

I mean, I never once stopped to think just how low odds are of getting yourself drunk and waking up in what you previously knew as a game. That, coupled with the fact Kaidan told me that the slaver records say that I was captured on the Ebon Hawk, whereas I distinctly remember waking up on Torfan first…

Bah, let's return to skycars before this thinking drives me insane. So… How often does this thing need to refuel? Oh wait, it uses element zero, not gasoline. I guess not that often.

"Guess that's how the oil companies finally went bankrupt…" – I… Wait a second, did I just say that out loud?

"Huh?" – A very confused Herrmann mouths off. Psycho, once more doesn't seem to care.

So yeah, I definitely said that.

"Oh…" – I begin, trying to make up a perfectly logical explanation – "I was just speculating on how 21st Century oil companies went extinct."

"… Alright." – He replies after a lengthy silence.

Great. That's really what I needed. I guess I'll always be a bit awkward here, but there's really no need for me to start giving myself away like this! A mental institution – Despite everything – still isn't all that high on my priority list.

But overall, back to this particular skycar, it does seem to be a bit more sports-like than the one in the Lair of the Shadow Broker. And with an efficiency-crazed salarian, who knows how fast it can really?

"Psycho," – I begin formulating my question. – "How fast can this thing go?"

She – Again while driving – Turns to me and with a grin replies:

"This baby can go roughly 275 kilometers per hour!"

Huh. That's about the higher average of most sports cars back on Earth. I guess Meran didn't get a chance to mess around with it just yet.

"So… How long until we reach our destination?" – I continue my line of inquiry.

"Oh, just under three hours." – She replies, returning her gaze to the horizon again.

Three hours? That means the camp is some… 800 kilometers away? Pretty far away, I guess.

God, how am I supposed to not die of boredom by then? Damn it, life! Boredom kills and the lack of boredom means you're about to be killed! I guess old Murphy's law is true after all. Anything you do can get you killed – Including doing nothing at all.

So… I guess I could take a risk and ask our resident psychopath for a scarred-for-life story. Herrmann wasn't an option, as from what he told me, he didn't have a very interesting life before singing up with the mercs.

Still, with Psycho you could never be sure. Mere few hours ago, she nearly blew Legerian's head off for the sake of her twisted sense of humor. But hey, 'tis better to go out in one last burst of glory than to bore yourself to death, right? Then again, where's the glory in dying for asking for a story?

Or maybe, just maybe, I'm overthinking it all? Well, here it goes – Victory or death…

"Hey Psycho." – I begin my tactical anti-boredom inquiry. – "Got any good stories?"

She, for some reason, snorts in amusement before echoing my words:

"Stories?"

"You know, some interesting mission, or something?" – I try to explain.

"I know what ya mean!" – She explains her own words. – "It's just that I don't think of it that way."

"Oh?" – I say, hoping to get her to elaborate.

"Don't 'oh' me." – She warns, but the tone of her voice somehow makes it hard to take it seriously. – "I just tend to think of it in the terms of kills rather than in terms of missions."

"In terms of kills…?" – I ask, not truly understanding what she means by this.

"It's not somethin' that'd be easy to explain to the likes of ya." – She answers.

"Likes of me…?" – Psycho's getting more confusing by the second, and as if a testimony to this, Herrmann shoots me a 'what have you gotten me into?' look.

"Y'know, the likes that haven't based their life 'round killing for the past hundred or so years?" – She answers. For some reason that merely seems to be an attempt to disinterest me and it backfires horrendously.

"Try me." – I insist. This is getting a bit reckless when you take into account that I'm talking to someone called Psycho.

"Galaxy's a nasty place." – She notes. So far we're in an agreement there. – "I was taught this early on."

Wait… That's the whole answer? I push these thoughts into words and say:

"Come on, there has to be more to it."

"I'm gonna get there soon enough!" – She responds. – "Just tryin' to figure out why I should tell ya."

Trust issues? Really? I'm the one she's threatened to kill, not the other way around!

"Well, we are squadmates and we should get to trust one another…" – I suggest, selecting an imaginary paragon option – Which is ironic, since I mostly played varying degrees of renegade… Gah, these ridicules thoughts aren't gonna help me survive this ride!

She snorts in amusement once again.

"Trust!" – She says. – "An old… Whaddya humans call it, fairy tale? Yeah, an old fairy tale if I ever heard one."

Huh. A cynic is one thing I didn't expect her to be, with that cheerful attitude of hers.

"But remember this," – She finishes. – "As long as there are two people left in the galaxy, one is going to want the other dead. And that's where we come in."

"That's all?" – I ask for the one last time.

"'S much as I'm willin' to say, yep." – She responds, the cheerful attitude finding its way back into her voice.

Well, much to Herrmann's apparent relief, there are no spectacular stories involved. Perhaps that is for the best? I wouldn't know.

I stare back at the wasteland and I notice that there are few hints of trees on the horizon.

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Alright. Staring at trees is certainly not the best way to spend a few hours. I used to think that the wasteland was a bit depressing, but the endless forests are just plain boring. The greatest amount of variety we've got was an occasional water body.

But things were about to turn interesting once again and my life is about to be put on the line, and not for the sake of science either, oh no – We don't have Meran here. This is for the sake of Psycho's reckless driving!

"Alright, hang tight guys!" – Psycho says.

And I look out to see trees – And not just any trees, but odd trees – Rapidly approaching! Damn it, this is _not_ good! _THIS IS NOT GOOD! _

And we actually pass through several dozen layers of branches before landing at a landing pad I'm pretty sure couldn't even been seen from air – So Psycho presumably used some sort of GPS system.

My heart, on the other hand, feels the need to take away several decades of its existence for the sake of pumping blood at pressures way larger than anything it was designed to do.

I look out the window and we seem to be near some sort of clearing, but I can't see any sign of civilization here.

"Alright…" – Begins Psycho. – "Shuttin' down primary power module, secondary 's well… Okay, everythin' looks good."

My guess is that she's shutting down the car's systems for the sake of hiding the thing from any scans. Smart enough.

"And there go the doors!" – She cheerfully announces as the skycar's doors open up. I guess they must be running of a separate power source.

All of us exit, with Herrmann and I being the first and Psycho meddling with some settings and then exiting.

As we exit, I take note of the landing pad. It's pretty inconspicuous, by any standards, so there's no doubt Psycho used at least some electronic guidance of some sorts.

"So, now that we are here, where is the camp?" – Herrmann asks, and rightfully so.

"Oh, it's this way." – Psycho answers and then motions for us to follow her.

And we do so, beginning our journey through woods and hills… Heh, that reminds me of an old folk's song back from my homeland… Wait, that's not helping and we are not moving through hills and not so much through woods since we're moving to a clearing.

The clearing itself seems too small and deliberate to be a natural occurrence, so I guess that the Blue Suns made it. You know, earlier I said that twenty training camps and likely equal amount of safehouses is a small number for one planet, but I have to wonder how much it costs. Then again, it probably costs way more than I'll see in my life, so what's the point of wondering.

Hmm, Psycho seems to have stopped for some reason.

"Hey guys! It's here!" – She announces with her ever-present cheerfulness and perhaps just a speck of pride in her voice.

She then kneels and grabs hold of something… Wait, are those doors opening? I move in closer to see what exactly is happening and I see that it's… And underground shelter. I won't go as far and say a bunker, even though the doors are made out of metal. I can also see some sort of ladders going down, but besides that all I see is darkness.

"Wait here!" – She orders before sliding down the ladder.

"An underground bunker…?" – Herrmann echoes my thoughts.

"Not what I expected, either." – I reply. – "Though I'd call it a shelter, not a bunker."

"Huh?" – He replies questioningly. – "Why?"

"I don't know." – I say. – "Just seems like the right thing to call it."

Then, all the sudden, a faint light emerges from the shelter, doing away with the previous darkness.

"Both of ya can come down now!" – Psycho's voice echoes back to us.

Huh. So does Herrmann want to go first, or…?

"You can go first as far as I am concerned." – He says. – "Just in case Psycho set up some mines out of a prank."

"Oh," – I reply sarcastically. – "Thanks for the vote of confidence!"

Still, knowing that Psycho – Most likely – Didn't do that I slide down the ladder.

What I'm met with is a small, claustrophobic room with two bunk beds on either side of the wall, a table with four chairs and… Another paste dispenser.

"Welcome to your new home!" – Psycho announces.

Herrmann then slides in behind me, making the already small space smaller.

"Comfy." – I note, and not entirely sarcastic either.

"Yeah, though it would seem that one of the bunk beds' upper bed was ruined by whoever was here before." – Psycho informs us.

I scan both of the bunk beds and see what she's taking about. The right one's mattress has been simply… Removed, practically making the bunk bed a single bed with a roof.

"I call in my rights to dibs on that bed!" – Herrmann hastily says. Nice one, Herrmann, leaving me in the same bunk as a psychopath... I'd pull out a sarcastic remark, but I'd rather not risk insulting Psycho for obvious reasons.

"Alright." – Says Psycho. – "Now that you decided who's sleepin' where in these luxurious accommodations, let's go outside and do a little target practice!"

With that she practically storms out of the shelter, leaving Herrmann and I to do the same.

As I exit the shelter, I can see Psycho fiddling with her omni-tool.

"Alright… They should be right there…" – I can hear her say while heading towards her.

And suddenly, about a dozen practice targets pop up out of nowhere, leaving Psycho with a satisfied grin on her face.

As Herrmann finally climbs out, Psycho begins her monologue:

"Welcome to Trainin' Grounds Alpha 7!" – She announces with a mocking version of the stereotype Drill Sergeant accent. – "As ya've probably already figured out, I'll be trainin' ya recruits here. Do ya get me?"

I know that I, for some reason beyond my comprehension, go along with this mocking speech and nod.

"First thing's first." – She says, now in a more serious tone. – "Gotta ask ya, have any of you actually held a gun in your hand before?"

Uh, well…

"I once held an ancient human flintlock pistol, if that counts." – I say it.

"Flintlock?" – She says questioningly. – "You'll have to tell me 'bout that later."

"Besides that, no guns." – I add.

"The situation is about the same here." – Herrmann informs. – "Just without flintlocks here."

"Guess I'll have to teach ya everything." – She says. – "Pavlov! Hand me your suitcase!"

Ah yes, "suitcase", the thing filled with guns I nearly forgot I was carrying. We have thrown that claim to Psycho.

As she grabs and opens up the thing, she says:

"I'll introduce you to one gun at the time, tryin' to get you to understand the basics of how to fire it, and we'll practice marksmanship later."

She then pulls out the first gun of the exhibit, which is a collapsed form of some pistol I don't recognize.

"This is an M-2 Eliminator." – She says. – "It's the standard-issue pistol of the Blue Suns. It's accurate, moderately powerful and with a moderate power rate."

She de-collapses the gun back into its basic form and throws it to me. My reflexes, though rusty as hell, prove adequate enough for me to just barely catch the gun.

"What kind of reflexes are those?" – Psycho scolds me, though the classic cheerfulness somehow still in her voice. – "No matter, come up here and take a shot!"

Wait, wasn't she supposed to teach us just how to do that? Still, I better not disobey her orders. I step up to where Psycho ordered me.

"Good, ya know your directions." – She says. – "Now see the closest target? Take a shot."

There goes any hope of her actually explaining things… Anyway, I extend my right arm, take my best aim, and squeeze the trigger, and…

Argh! Why do my fingers suddenly ache so much? Also, where the hell is the gun? Wait a second…

Psycho just bursts out laughing all the sudden and Herrmann merely coughs. My god, I have _not _just shot my own gun out of my own hand!

Finally calming down a little, Psycho speaks up: "That's… That's the most hilarious thing I have seen since… Nah, never mind, lemme show ya how it's done!"

And then I realize what precisely I have gotten myself into.

**A/N: And there you have it, the sixth chapter. The next two or three will focus mostly on training.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	7. A Day in Life

**A/N: I have no idea how long it was since I updated. I only know that it was far too long.**

**If you want a run-down for the reasons of the late update, it was a mix of me being a lazy-ass and my life getting a bit more hectic than usual. I can't be sure whether or not I'll resume the one/two day updates, but I'll try my best.**

**Updates aside, thanks for all the hits and reviews!**

**Now, without further ado…  
**

**A Day in Life…**

As consciousness once more returns to my mind, I am left to wonder why a week ago I didn't call dibs on the former bunk bed. Perhaps I didn't expect Herrmann to call dibs on anything ever? A justified position, as he often uses far more formal version of English than the rest of us, and therefore 'dibs' shouldn't have even been a part of his vocabulary.

Or perhaps I simply didn't use my tactical brilliance to plan ahead once I saw the bed in question? Knowing my tactical brilliance in its full shine, I can say that most likely it's a good thing that I didn't.

Then again, those events are so far back into the past that there isn't really any point to wondering this, if perhaps only to pass time until I find a good way to get out of the bed and get some food… That is, if I could even consider the paste food anymore. I can say that eating nothing but the paste since I got here hasn't improved my opinion of the thing. As a matter of fact, my opinion of it degrades by the meal. It most certainly won't become an acquired taste.

But none of that will be problem, really, if I don't figure out how to get out of this bed without waking Psycho, who's sleeping right above me, and as I found out doesn't take kindly to being woken up before her own time. Gah, my ribs still ache from that one.

Alright, let's take this slowly this time around… I still want to keep my bones as intact as possible, which is not saying much given the circumstances…

So far so good… No sounds of any sort besides my breathing. Alright… Steady, steady… Climbing out in three, two, one…

And I stumble, damn clumsily at that. If there wasn't any sound before, there is one now! Oh god, here it comes… Hopefully this time around she won't break my spine!

I hear a groan, a damn annoyed one at that, forming in the upper bed of the bunk. This is _not _good. Maybe I can still make a run for it? Who knows, this time around I ma-

And Psycho ever so kindly cuts my train of thought off, without any warning or pity. For a second I can feel the hit of her legs, descending from above and launching me forward beyond any hope for control. The only problem with this is that the table is right in front of me meaning that…

I hit it and my head takes the brunt of the impact and all the sudden it feels sort of numb and I feel dizzy… I can swear there's some sort of liquid going down my face… I clumsily turn so that I face Psycho… For what reason, I don't really know.

"Damn it, Pavlov." – She begins her scolding session. – "How many times did I tell ya not to wake me up?"

"I tried…" – I answer, not particularly feeling like forming complex thoughts… Argh, that damn headache, and I didn't even get to drink anything last night…

"Y'know that there's no 'try'. Just do or die." – She retorts.

Indeed, Psycho's training system, despite her cheerfulness, has proven itself to be rather draconic. Needless to say, my performance on the firing range has been improving rapidly. Nowadays I'm not shooting the gun out of my own hand, but occasionally hit the target. Still, I've got more than my share of bruises because of it.

As I slowly start recovering, I note another groan, this one belonging to Herrmann. I guess there's no sleeping to be had here any longer.

"Why do you have to be so damn cruel?" – I ask rhetorically.

Psycho, however, misses the 'rhetorically' part.

"I've had a batch of recruits before ya two, y'know." – She says, as if this explains everything.

"Oh?" – I ask, still sitting on the metal floor. – "And what happened to them?"

"They died." – She replies bluntly.

I jump a little at this.

"How did they die?" – I ask, hoping it's not what I think it is.

"Not from lack of training, rest assured." – She replies.

Oh great. Now there are two ways I could take that and right now, one seems more likely than the other.

"Schmitz!" – Psycho sounds off. – "Patch him up."

Yeah, ever since she discovered Herrmann's medical talents, Psycho's been using them to their fullest extent. Well, perhaps not that much, but close enough.

With yet another groan, Herrmann finally gets up and walks up to me, with his omni-tool open.

"Could you not ignore your urge to wake our resident psychopath up just one morning?" – He asks, annoyance obvious in his voice.

"Think of it like this, Herrmann." – I reply, as he scans my head with his omni-tool. – "You're not the one who just got kicked in the back and got his brain scrambled."

He rolls his eyes at this.

"It is just a minor concussion, nothing really worth complaining about." – He says. – "As for the head wound…"

And with a few pushed buttons, I feel a cold and tingling sensation pretty much all over my head. I preferred when it was very rare for me to experience this, but Psycho blew all that straight to hell. They don't call her Psycho for no reason.

"… And there goes that." – Herrmann finishes his statement.

As he stands up, he extends his arm in order to help me get up. I gladly take him up on that offer, grab his arm and help myself up. I guess it's time for the miserable excuse for a breakfast we have here.

As I turn towards the dispenser, I see Psycho merely fiddling with her omni-tool as if nothing happened just a few seconds ago. I don't think I'll ever understand her – Though I hope she gets understand me enough not to break my bones. I don't doubt Herrmann's abilities, but there's a limit to how far I'm willing to test them.

As I order a fresh batch of paste, I hear Psycho order:  
"Ya better don't get an urge to eat that breakfast forever. I wanna see ya both outside, fully armored in ten minutes." – She orders.

I merely silently nod, and I'm not sure what Herrmann does, as I'm too busy getting my breakfast. Wordlessly, then, Psycho turns towards the ladders and proceeds to exit the shelter. I, on the other hand, merely proceed back to the table, leaving the dispenser to Herrmann.

I sit on the already familiar chair and put the plate down. As I once more look upon the pseudo-food in front of me I can't help but think that this is certainly not the best way to start off a day, but it was none the less the only way.

After a few minutes of silence, I finally speak up, though what comes out of my mouth could be, perhaps, better branded as a grunt:

"I hate this paste."

"You should, instead, be glad that you have anything to eat at all." – Herrmann retorts, semi-offended. Damn, he's not in a good mood today.

I, instead of immediately noting this, keep silent for a few seconds, taking his advice and being glad that all I have for food is this poor replica.

"What's up with you today?" – I finally ask after a while.

He in response initially just sighs, preferring to keep eating his paste rather than voice any particular answer or opinion.

"I have just been noting how much time has passed." – He finally says.

"It's barely been over a week." – I reply, figuring he is referring to the time of our employment in the Blue Suns.

"It has been an entire week and I have yet to earn a single credit." – He replies. – "And I still have a family to feed."

And I give myself a mental self-punch for not recognizing what he has been talking about. I guess I have enough problems of my own in order to forget someone else's.

And somehow, I find myself thinking as to what happened with me back home. Have I just disappeared? Or have I, like in that one SI fanfic, actually died? The latter option is actually, for some reason, a bit comforting. At least it means that I have left no loose ends that I should've tied.

"We'll get some work soon enough." – I assure him, finishing the paste.

"I certainly do hope so." – He replies.

And then I get up from the chair and turn back to where two of our self-shockers lay, just waiting to stab us in the back and kill the entire purpose of an armor.

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I hate this self-shocking piece of shit armor! It somehow managed to prove itself even worse than my omni-tool, which was in Ramirez's words a piece of shit!

"That's some lazy runnin' right there, Pavlov!" – I hear Psycho yell over comm. Oh, thanks for reminding me that I'm running, you goddamned asari psychopath!

As I run around the clearing for the umpteenth damned time I withdraw my previous statement that the clearing is small. On the contrary, once you run the hundred meters lap that the edge of it provides for as many times as I have, it provides a whole new perspective on just how ridiculously huge this place is. And I am many things, but in the fittest condition is something I am not.

Why can't everything be small?

"Attack from the left!" – Psycho informs.

As I was taught to do, I immediately drop down to a crouch position and come to a halt. I raise the M-8 Avenger assault rifle I carry in my hands and take my best aim at the nearest target, and from what I can tell Herrmann's doing the same.

Now comes the tricky bit. I squeeze the trigger and few moments later I release it. Damn it that was four rounds! I repeat the process, but release the trigger a few moments earlier. Two rounds! Gah!

The trick is in this: The Avenger lacks any other firing mode from full-auto. Many mistake this for an advantage, and waste their rounds into overheating in mere seconds. Now, as Psycho taught us, the 'pro' thing to do is to pull of a three-round burst, with preferably all bullets impacting your targets.

Anything more than three rounds more often than not misses its target and anything under that is giving your enemy the precious time to recharge their kinetic barriers.

And since the Avenger appears to be a bit better-hitting than its counterpart in the game, this appears to be a good and sensible tactic for using the rifle. The only problem is I suck at it.

So, I see no other options other than keep firing and missing like an idiot or trying the good old 'fire a hundred times and you'll hit something' principle. And given that I'm too breathless for anything like the accuracy Psycho's been teaching us, it's hardly a choice.

Abandoning all accuracy I simply squeeze the trigger and feel the gunstock hitting my shoulder like a sledgehammer, and the rifle trying manically to escape my grip. I hold out for some three seconds before being forced to stop firing, since I'm not risking shooting the gun out of my own hand _again_.

Hmm… I wonder, was that a cringe I felt coming from Psycho? That won't end well. I can tell.

"Resume sprinting, one lap left!" – Psycho informs us over the comm., her voice visibly annoyed at my unparalleled display of military prowess.

And so we resume running, much to my dismay.

Come to think of it, this self-shock armor is quite heavy. One would think that in the future they wouldn't need anything this clumsy and big to electrically shock someone.

Hmph… Knowing Psycho's punitive measures for something such as my dismissal of her training, I'll probably get to use the self-shocker again.

Alright… Few more meters and I come to a halt, finally! I take one deep breath after another, trying to get my breathing under control once again. Herrmann, on the other hand seems to be far more in control than me.

"'Kay," – Psycho begins, apparently completely oblivious to the breathing struggle. – "Let's review today's trainin'."

Only it's far from only training today. It's barely past dawn and if past experience means anything, there's no way Psycho will let us get away with just this.

"It took ya two some thirty minutes to run two'n'half kilometers." – She informs us. – "Pathetic, but I guess it's better than your original hour."

"Now, Schmitz, your reflexes're good enough." – She continues her monologue. – "As for yours, Pavlov, not so much."

"Movin' onto accuracy and three-rounders…" – She continues. – "Schmitz, you pass, not with flyin' colors, but you still pass.

"As for ya Pavlov…" – She begins the dreaded sentence. – "I won't even comment."

Instead, she opens up her omni-tool and… Oh god, here it comes!

She presses a button and my muscles begin to spasm beyond my control, as for the god-knows-what time, the electric current coming from the self-shocking armor runs through my body, leaving me to collapse a few moments later.

Psycho positions herself over me and says:

"Now, pick up your rifle and practice three-rounders 'til ya figure out you don't have a super-accurate super-durable rifle in your hands but a really shitty standard issue one!"

As my muscles still reek with pain, I can't help but think just how much it would be easier if she hadn't just practically stunned my entire body!

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I remember the days when I used to think of shooting guns as a fun thing to do for a living. Certainly, that was while I was still a bit of a kid, but I always had a soft spot for guns.

The past four hours annihilated that soft spot forever and left me hating the gun for the years to come.

But at least I apparently managed to get a somewhat reasonable chance of pulling off the famed three-round burst. And so, looking at the surprisingly-intact target, I collapse the rifle and reach for the suitcase, which housed my remaining firearms.

I slide the rifle into its designated spot and close the suitcase. Right now, I'm tired and my shoulder hurts like hell, and it isn't even noon.

I guess I'll have to go and see Herrmann for the shoulder. Hopefully he has something for the pain.

Speaking of Herrmann, where the hell is he? I look around and see no sign of him. Huh. I guess he went back into the shelter.

And so the shelter becomes my destination. As the overall clearing wasn't that large – A statement at which I would cringe at tomorrow's exercises – It only takes me a short time to reach the hatch.

From there, it is a mere slide down the ladder – As I have learned to avoid wasting time by climbing down the same. In the shelter I am greeted by the same old shelter and its occupants. Minus Herrmann.

Whereas I am certain that Psycho couldn't have missed my arrival, she just ignores me like usual, instead preferring the sight of her omni-tool.

"Psycho," – I begin. – "Have you seen Herrmann?"

Finally she looks up from her omni-tool and replies:

"Yep. He wanted to take a walk in the woods." – She replies.

"The woods?" – I ask surprised. – "I thought you said that the woods were filled with predators?"

"He has his gun." – Psycho replies. – "And unlike ya, he can actually use it!"

Oh, not this talk again…

"Hey, I improved since my initial shot!" – I reply.

"Sure ya did, but ya're nowhere as accurate as Schmitz!" – She retorts.

"And I haven't trained to be a surgeon either!" – I reply. – "You're hardly making a fair measurement here!"

She snorts at the word 'fair'.

"In battle the enemy won't be fair, Pavlov." – She replies. – "Ya're still an idealist, but you'll learn soon enough. Or maybe you'll die before that. Either way, it's all the same for me."

Well, that was surprisingly profound when you take into account that it's Psycho saying it.

"Perhaps if there were more 'idealists', this galaxy would be less shitty of a place." – I retort.

"Still livin' in the world of shoulds, I see." – She replies before turning her gaze back to her omni-tool, indicating that discussion was over.

I merely sigh. Herrmann's out of town, so my shoulder's unfortunately staying the way it is. What is left for me to do? I fired off my share of bullets today. Perhaps get an early lunch?

No thank you. I had enough of that paste to last a lifetime. And that's not because of its nutritional value.

So… I guess the only thing to do is to continue discussions with Psycho. In spite of her apparent wishes I speak up again.

"Why do we have to have paste for food?" – I groan after looking at the dispenser.

"'Cause it's portable." – She replies.

"Portable or not, I am sick of eating the thing for over ten days." – I respond.

"Ya don't like it?" – She finally says with annoyance in her voice, despite her grin. – "Then do somethin' 'bout it!"

"Like…?" – I ask. – "I'm open to suggestions."

"Ya have a rifle, don't cha?" – She asks. – "Use it!"

"For hunting, you mean?" – I ask, hoping that's what she meant.

"Yep, genius, that's what I meant!" – She replies, all with a sarcastic compliment.

"I think you forgot that I don't have surgeon's hands." – I say.

She lets out a long and annoyed sigh. Hopefully this doesn't mean I'll be on the receiving end of another punch.

"'Kay." – She says. – "I'll come with ya!"

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Alright, if someone told me that I would be hunting with a psychopathic asari on Bekenstein just a month ago, I would've most likely punched them for their idiocy. Actually, no I wouldn't, but it felt like the right thing to think.

Still, there was one burning question I felt the need to ask…

"Not that I doubt your hunting skills, Psycho, but…" – I begin, only to be cut off by Psycho herself.

"If ya don't doubt them, there's no 'but'." – She says.

"It's just that…" – I begin once more.

"It's just nothin'." – She replies. – "Now keep quiet! We don't wanna any prey knowin' we're here!"

"Won't any animals just smell us from like a kilometer away?" – I ask.

"Nuh-uh." – She replies. – "The wind's blowin' the wrong way."

"Yeah, come to think of it, if the animals actually caught the smell of our little 'bait', they'd run off into the distance." – I state.

"They're animals!" – Psycho retorts. – "They're dumb enough to eat just 'bout anythin'!"

Yeah, there go her hunting skills.

"How is bait supposed to work without the animals smelling it?" – I ask.

"Ya ask too many questions!" – She retorts. – "Keep quiet!"

Yep, she doesn't know the first thing about hunting. Animals, anyway. I wouldn't want her hunting me any of these days. Those are completely different rules of combat.

And so we're almost pointlessly lying in this bush. Nothing worth killing is even going to come anywhere near that paste. Goddamit, why can't we have any appropriate baits in the shelter, just lying and waiting for us?

Still, I guess I could make this pointless exercise somewhat pointful – Is that even a word, really? – Still, I guess I had some differences to work out with Psycho.

"Psycho," – I begin. – "We need to work out some differences."

"I told ya to shut it!" – She retorts. – "Plus, what differences?"

Argh, you mean she hasn't noticed it?

"Well for starters," – I reply. – "The fact I get a kick, a punch or get thrown around like a rag-doll every morning."

"There's nothin' I can work out there." – She says. – "I already told ya that ya shouldn't wake me up."

"I tried, Psycho, but I can't really be quiet if I have to fear getting beat down if I fail." – I reply.

"Fear is a good motivator." – She says.

"Is it really, now?" – I ask. – "In my case it has proven counterproductive."

"'Kay, so according to your logic, if I stopped kicking you every mornin', you'd actually go quiet for once?" – She asks.

"It'd be step in the right direction." – I reply.

"What a pile of crap." – She dismisses it.

Not the answer I expected, really, but one that somehow suits Psycho anyway – Which is not a good thing at all.

"You could at least try…" – I suggest.

She chuckles at this:

"For the longest time in my life I tried…" – She answers, once again not willing to go any deeper.

I keep quiet for a while, trying to discern the deeper meaning – If there is any – Of what she told me. However, thanks to her vagueness and unwillingness to tell me anything, I am unable to progress here.

"How about we try to sort out why you're picking on me?" – I ask, if a bit more aggressively than I intended. – "Your aggressive tendencies seem focused on me a bit too much for my liking."

She just stares at me for a second, but I'm unable to discern the meaning of this – Primarily because her face is practically dominated by her ever-present grin.

She then returns her gaze to the bait, and speaks up:

"Ya're takin' it way too personally." – She says.

"What do you mean?" – I ask, again unsure what she's referring to.

"I plan to kill ya." – She admits. – "But I also plan to kill everyone I've ever met eventually."

I must say I jump at her first sentence. When someone called Psycho says they're planning to kill you, it's usually a bad, _bad _thing. It probably means you should start figuring out what your last words are going to be.

Then again, I joined the Blue Suns, a merc criminal organization. This was to be expected.

"Why?" – I ask. – "What have I ever done to you?"

"'Cause life feeds on death." – She replies. – "And while there are two people alive, one will want the other dead."

There goes that sentence again. I most certainly won't ever understand Psycho. And she'll kill me regardless. Damn.

"I don't understand you." – I admit.

"Ya will soon enough." – She replies. – "The life of us mercs will teach ya."

"What do you mean?" – I ask once more, for once fearing the answer.

She grins once more.

"Not all our employers will have your moralistic ideals." – She answers.

And that is precisely what I fear. There rises the question, how far am I willing to go for my own survival? Can I even answer that in this peaceful – Ironic, given that I am right next to Psycho – Situation? I guess I'll know when the hard choices come.

"Hey, ya heard that?" – Psycho suddenly asks, breaking the silence.

"No, actually, I didn't." – I answer.

"Shut it!" – Psycho orders, and the tone actually makes me comply.

And suddenly I hear what appear to be… Footsteps? This far away from the city?

"Ready your rifle'n'surgeon's hands…" – I hear her whisper. Could it be that our prey has actually arrived?

Off in the distance, as if exiting camouflage, I see a brownish skinned varren-like creature walk towards us. The only difference is that unlike a varren, this thing had a much more prominent and massive jaw, as well as no visible eyes.

"A wrook." – Psycho says. – "They say they once were varren. Ready your rifle."

So she does, apparently, know a thing or two about wilderness.

The wrook turns towards the paste we have lying out in the open and starts walking towards it, as if to inspect it. I bring my rifle's scope into my sight and take the wrook in sights. Psycho apparently does the same.

The wrook takes the paste into its mouth – Or rather, jaw – And after a few seconds spits it out. Heh, I guess I can agree with that sentiment.

"Fire!" – Psycho suddenly yells out.

The wrook turns towards the source of the sound, inspecting it with newfound curiosity, perhaps looking for its true dinner. Oh no, you don't!

Psycho's rifle starts spitting out lead, in precise three-round bursts, and my own shoots in far less precise or deliberate three-rounders, occasionally skipping into two and four-round bursts.

The creature, after initial shock, shrugs off these wounds and starts charging towards us. We keep up the fire, but this berserking son-of-a-chernobylized-varren doesn't seem to care for anything except tearing us apart!

As it is mere half a dozen meters from us, I raise my rifle and take an aim for its head, firing off a single burst. The wrook immediately halts, and if it were a sapient creature, I'd swear it looks like it is in deep thought. Then, suddenly it collapses back onto the floor.

Holy shit! I actually just killed something with a single precise shot!

"Boom, headshot!" – I sound off, getting an odd look from Psycho.

I rise from the bush to inspect my kill. It is just a few steps away from where we were, and it is therefore just a few steps away.

As I approach it, I can't help but admire how toughly (brutishly, even), it is built. I especially take note of the armor-like plates it has for skin. One could mistake this thing for an evolutionary ancestor of the krogan.

I give the thing a kick for the good measure. Perhaps it is for the sake of mocking its defeat, or perhaps I'm trying to make sure its dead. Who knows? Eithe-

The creature suddenly leaps off the floor and its massive paws hit me, knocking me off balance completely. I fall down onto the ground, and the thing pins me onto it, apparently find me to be far more appealing of a dinner than the paste. I never thought I'd want anything dead for agreeing with me.

The things jaws close in to my head, readying to end it all for me. Psycho is nowhere to be seen. Figures. She did say she wanted me dead.

As I see the darkness of the wrook's jaws slowly closing in on me, I try to scream for help, but I'm far too terrified for this. Instead all that exits my mouth is a pathetic and pitiful whimper – But the thing isn't about to pity me. I don't know whether or not I am thankful for this – After all, this way I'll die with some dignity.

As the jaw moves in for the finishing blow, a strange sense of peace fills my mind. I'm still terrified, yes, but at a strange peace. I even smirk as I realize just how it ends: With a whimper, not a bang. I guess that poet, Eliot, was right all along. How oddly appropriate.

Then, out in the edges of my fading vision, I see a small speck of light, followed by a powerful flash and equally indomitable bang. The wrook simply collapses on me.

"Boom," – Psycho announces with a huge grin and shameless pride in her voice. – "Headshot."

I simply stare at her for a few odd seconds as my mind processes what just happened, apparently having trouble coping with the fact that it still exists. What a dumbass mind.

"I thought you said you wanted me dead?" – I asked, with a certain amount of incredulousness in my voice.

She gives me a scolding look, coupled with her ever-present grin and finally says:  
"I said I planned to kill you." – She answers. – "Not that I planned havin' someone else do my dirty work for me."

"That was too close…" – I state the obvious.

"The wrook are highly intelligence prey." – Psycho notes. – "It's always dangerous to approach them while they still have their head on."

"Either way, can you get this damned thing off me?" – I de facto order.

"Sure thing." – She answer, before flaring her left hand in the blue aura of biotics and throwing the wrook off me. I stare a few seconds at the biotic manifestations. The wrook might have hit my head a bit too hard, but for some reason, they appear strangely… Beautiful, for the lack of better term.

"Ya never seen a biotic before, eh Pavlov?" – Psycho sarcastically asks. – "Now get up! We have a lunch to carry!"

Oh god, how are we supposed to carry _that thing_?

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"… but you have to admit, my accuracy's improving!" – I retort to Psycho's inherently anti-me argument.

"Yep, as proved by the deadness of this wrook back there." – She agrees sarcastically. – "Oh wait, _I _had to kill it, not ya!"

"But compared to what my accuracy was a few days ago, it's far better." – I note, ignoring her sarcasm.

"No kidding." – She says. – "Ya're no longer shootin' the gun outta your hand!"

I simply groan at the memory of the incident. That groan is followed by yet another one which is as the weight of this wrook thing.

The familiar clearing soon appears, revealing, among other things, Herrmann who apparently returned from his walk through the woods.

"Where were you two?" – He asks. – "And what in the name of everything holy is _that_?"

Through groans I explain:

"We were hunting for better food." – I say. – "And this is our lunch."

"No more paste?" – He asks with a renewed enthusiasm.

"No more paste." – I answer.

"Great!" – He asks with sincere joy in his voice. – "Now, who is going to cook this thing?"

Well… Come to think of it, I don't really know how to cook.

"Psycho, you know how to cook, right?" – I ask – "'Cause I don't."

"And why would I know how to cook?" – She asks before replying. – "I don't work for a restaurant, I kill!"

And thus all eyes fall on Herrmann.

After a few seconds he speaks up:  
"Damn it, people! I'm a doctor, not a cook!"

**A/N: And there you have the second part of the training arc. I hope you enjoyed it!**

**Thanks for reading!**


	8. The Hunters and the Hunted

**A/N: Judging by the chronometers I was provided with, it has been whole five days since I updated. I'm definitely being a lazy bugger, though right now I can bring up the defense of this being my largest chapter ever, as well as a fairly significant one, plot-wise.**

**And while I was gone, can you guess what happened? Reviews exploded and hits went nuclear. Thanks for both guys! 'Tis your support that keeps this little project going!**

**Now, without further ado…  
**

**The Hunters and the Hunted**

"Are you certain about this, Sergei?" – I hear Herrmann ask somewhere from behind me. Of course I'm certain about this! Would I be doing it otherwise?

"Yes, Herrmann, she out there somewhere…" – I answer his question in far politer tone than my thoughts. – "I can tell."

I recheck the woods in front of me, looking for any sign of movement. Nothing for now… Say what you will about the heat of the action, but it's by far less frustrating than silence.

"Oh? And how can you do that?" – I hear Herrmann ask nervously.

"I just can tell." – I reply. – "She has that presence to her…"

"Presence?" – He questions. – "What presence are you talking about?"

"The 'you're gonna die soon' presence." – I reply.

From the feeling of increased nervousness I get from Herrmann, I guess that didn't improve the morale. I reminiscence about that particular sentence… The beatings will continue until the morale improves… Where have I first heard that one?

Wait, this is no time for that. She is out there somewhere and she's gonna kill us soon if we aren't careful.

"Anything?" – I ask.

"For once, too little my friend." – Herrmann replies.

I ponder this for a while. She could, of course, simply be playing with us. She does seem like the type. But she could genuinely not be here. Perhaps we really did loose her back at the second clearing?

If we indeed lost her back there, then standing here is simply giving her a better chance of finding us. And that isn't good at all.

"You sure you've got nothing?" – I ask once more.

"No, I am intentionally deceiving you!" – He lashes out in an unnecessary burst of sarcasm. I choose to ignore it.

"Let's go, then." – I say.

"What about your feeling?" – He asks, nervousness finding its way into his voice once more.

"Maybe my gut's wrong just this once." – I reply.

"Just this once?" – He retorts. – "I could think of quite a few times it was wrong!"

"Right…" – I reply. – "We should double back to the caves."

"Caves? Caves are back there where we started!" – He notes.

"Precisely why Psycho won't look for us there." – I explain. – "It's too obvious."

"Another brilliant strategy of yours?" – He asks.

I don't reply. As interesting as banter with Herrmann could get at times, I didn't have time for it now. The final part of our training was underway. And I wasn't about to become easy prey.

"Follow me." – I order.

He doesn't answer, but instead gets up from his crouching position. I step out of the natural formation resembling a foxhole and start walking back south, where the caves are. It's slowly getting dark, and a couple dozen near-encounters with our unofficial drill sergeant hadn't left us fresh and eager. The caves, on the other hand, present a relatively easy to defend spot that should provide us with a sanctuary. That's the hope, at least.

I keep the Avenger in my hand and my eyes open. Despite everything, I still trust my gut. It kept me alive so far, after all. Hmm… Something is simply too peaceful about this whole ordeal. It's almost like the calm before the sto-

I suddenly notice a flash off in the distance, and something whizzes past my head! Dammit, I guess Psycho's picking up her game.

"Sniper!" – Herrmann, ever helpfully, informs me.

"I've noticed!" – I say, starting to run. – "Let's pick up the pace!"

After a few more seconds another shot whizzes past us. I continue running but can't help but feel that there's something wrong about all of this. My nerves tense even further as another shoot harmlessly passes us… Something's wrong. Psycho was never this inaccurate, despite not being the designated markswoman of the team.

But there's no time for tracking those inconsistencies. This is the final test and I'm not about to fail it by overthinking things! I continue my charge forward, uncaring for the passing bullets… Argh, I'm still not fit enough for all of this!

Hmpf… At least the clearing is more than a kilometer away and the caves should be all that far away from there… If we make it that far!

Then all the sudden I see a flash right in front of us… And that's mere moments as Herrmann gets hit and his body starts convulsing outside his control. I almost instinctively hit the deck, which does _wonders _for my already bruised arms. Better than having my entire body shocked once again. The self-shocking armor must have taken off at least a decade of my life expectancy!

Herrmann finally collapses next to me. I can't tell whether or not he's knocked out or simply staying down for the sake of his own safety. For a moment I consider dragging him to cover, but I remember that Psycho scolded such actions. Probably for a good reason as well.

Instead, after a few random seconds later, I jump back onto my feet, if perhaps clumsily, and make a break for it to the nearest tree. While the decoy sniper is still pointlessly shooting besides me (probably because Psycho wouldn't have a drone finishing off her target), Psycho – Presumably – Takes a real shot at me, which flies ever-so-closely, but still misses. With a few more steps, I find myself behind the tree, which provides adequate cover for the moment.

The drone, or whatever Psycho set up to shoot at me, keeps up its constant barrage of intentionally missing rounds. I still can't help but feel nervous at it. I guess Psycho set it up there for psychological warfare as much as she did for herding. This sophisticated tactics are not something I'd usually attribute to her.

But my gut proved right once again… As I glance to Herrmann, I can see that is much to his dismay. Mine as well, now. I'm stuck behind this tree and if my gut is right again, Psycho's coming to finish me off.

At this point I don't have any delusions of getting out of this one. Psycho's an experienced merc and Herrmann's down. I, instead, ready my rifle for whatever its worth. Maybe I'll be able to slip in a lucky hit. Unlikely, but not impossible.

From what has to be at least several dozen meters away, I hear a booming and cheerful voice sound off:

"Pavlov, Pavlov…" – Psycho said. – "How 'bout ya just come out 'n' we finish this?"

And surrender without a fight? I came far too far for that. Plus I have to honor Herrmann's fictional sacrifice. That seals it, I'm going down fighting. If I have to get another decade off my life expectancy thanks to this self-shocking armor… Hmm, come to think of it…

I reach for the armor's straps and quickly loosen them, followed by a swift and deliberate (or perhaps practiced) move which takes off the armor, leaving me with just my clothing. Psycho herself was the one to say that in combat enemies don't always play fair, after all.

"Hey Pavlooov…" – I hear Psycho's now teasing voice sound off from far closer. – "C'mon, get out… I promise I won't bite."

That voice was about a dozen meters away. Close enough. If I'm going to do this, it's gotta be now!

I burst out of my cover and Psycho immediately takes her potshot. The three concussive rounds impact me, causing an agonizing sensation coming from my ribs… But not leaving me shocked.

Psycho's grin disappears as she realizes that I don't have my armor on. And my grin, despite the now-painful chest, appears. I raise the Avenger's scope to my eye, and as soon as I'm sure I have the shot, I pull the trigger, releasing it soon afterwards.

The rounds make their way up Psycho's body, impacting her own self-shocker. As I guess an electrical current travels through Psycho's body, she convulses rather violently.

I can't help but feel a certain amount of triumph at this. Not just because I defeated Psycho, but because she finally got a taste of her own medicine!

After a few seconds, the convulsion finally stops, and she collapses on the floor.

I wait for a few seconds… And nothing happens. After a few more, I'm starting to get worried. Maybe I've done some permanent damage?

I walk towards her, as she remains motionless. Now I'm getting really worried. This can't be a good start to a career, now ca-

When I'm practically above her, she suddenly jumps back onto her feet with an almost athletic precision. Before I'm capable of comprehending what just happened, her fist connects with my nose, sending me staggering backwards. She chooses not attack for some reason, giving me a chance to recover, one I use gladly.

Figuring that I don't have much time before the apparently furious Psycho attacks me again, I decide to throw a punch her way.

This proves to be a major mistake. She intercepts my fist before it can do any good, and instead of a simple deflection decides to capture it with her hand. Before my rusted reflexes can take over and plan a counterattack, Psycho nearly dances around me, while still holding and now twisting my fist.

Within a second, she is now behind me, and I can feel the increasing strain on my wrist. I am not given a second to think of the implications before a simple, yet somehow gruesome crack emanates from my wrist.

As I struggle to process this, a kick sends me flying down onto the ground. I decide that not struggling is the best course of action. Maybe Psycho will accept my defeat?

My answer comes in the form of a kick to my ribs, sending me tumbling onto my back.

I take one last look at Psycho… What I see in her eyes isn't rage. Just simple pride. With what I presume are the final moments of my consciousness, I can't help but wonder, pride at what?

A moment later, she raises her right foot and a mere second after that my entire world goes black.

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I flash my eyes open, and I am met with the familiar sight of the upper bunk bed. For a moment I wonder what sort of semi-lethal challenges I'll have to conquer in the name of Psycho's equally semi-insane training.

Then all thoughts are stopped as I feel a massive barrage of pain coming from seemingly everywhere. And the memories of what happened today flash back into my mind.

"Ah," – I hear the familiar voice that belongs to Herrmann. – "You are finally awake."

I groan at the pain as well as Herrmann's stating of the obvious.

"Would you prefer a quick, non-medical rundown or a full diagnosis?" – He asks, ignoring my groans.

"Just give me the rundown." – I reply with a strained voice.

"Psycho lived up to her wonderfully appropriate name." – He replies. – "Your radiocarpal joint, also known as a 'wrist' by laics, has been completely shattered."

Son of a chernobylized varren, judging by the beginning of Herrmann's speech, I should be glad I didn't ask for a full diagnosis.

"Your thoracic cage has been severely damaged, primarily due to your reckless attempt at cheating, with secondary damage due to Psycho's kick." – He continues his monologue.

So the thoracic cage is actually the rib cage? You learn new things every day.

"Your nose, on the other hand, was primarily destroyed by Psycho." – He finishes his report.

Wait, what?

"There's no fancy term for nose?" – I ask, with faked disappointment.

"There is _nasus _in Latin." – He replies. – "But it is not really a medical term per se."

Huh. Well, whatever. I'm not planning on going to the Medical College any time soon. If Herrmann's own experiences are anything to go by, I wouldn't be able to pay for it anyway. Nothing lost there.

"So, how long will I have to stay in bed?" – I ask, getting to asking the actually relevant stuff.

"You do not have to at all." – He replies. – "The miracle substance called medi-gel is already doing its job. And when you couple the medical skills from yours truly, and what did you think the outcome would've been?"

Not impressed by his work due to the pretty clear signals coming from my nerves, I reply:

"Then why do I feel like crap?"

"You are still healing." – He replies. – "But you should be mostly fine. I do not recommend getting on Psycho's nerves in the next twenty-four hours."

I simply groan at that. Why is it that Herrmann loves stating the obvious? Or come to think of it, why would he ever recommend pissing off Psycho? Or, better yet, why am I placing such significance onto such insignificant event?

"Now that you mention Psycho, where is she?" – I ask.

"I believe she mentioned something about going to a bar and getting drunk." – Herrmann replies.

Well, there goes my idea of going to a bar. A drunken Psycho is something that I don't wish to experience before I die. Heh, if I _was _to experience such a thing, it'd likely be the last thing I ever experienced anyway.

For some reason, I thought I'd be more upset at the fact that _I just got my wrist broken by a psychopath_, but I seem to have seen it coming. Guess when I spent that much time around someone called Psycho, I was practically asking for it.

"Help me up." – I ask Herrmann.

"While I am not restricting your movement since your bones have mostly healed, I would still recommend that you lay down." – Herrmann says just like one would expect a doctor to. Dammit, I don't have time for this!

"Herrmann…" – I say far too threateningly that I originally intended.

At this, Herrmann just rolls his eyes and gives me his left hand – Presumably to force me to use my non-damaged left arm. I grab his arm and despite the unrelenting protests of my chest, I pull myself up. Huh, I have to wonder, does the fact that I ignore the protests make me a dictator?

Or more importantly, did Psycho hit my head _this _hard, given that I am thinking such ridicules thoughts?

"What time is it?" – I ask Herrmann as I stand back on my feet.

"Oh, the night is still young, rest assured." – He replies. I guess that makes sense, since Psycho's apparently on her binge drinking spree, and you rarely do that in the noon.

"Is it still the same day Psycho knocked me out?" – I further my inquiry.

Herrmann just nods before turning towards the barracks' doors, for reasons unknown. I just stand there and in spite of the pain stretch a bit. I have to wonder, why hasn't Herrmann given me anything for the pain?

… Or perhaps he has, and this would all be much worse without those sedatives?

Gah, I don't know. I guess I should find something to do… Hmm, it's been a few weeks since I last spoke with Meran. Who knows what that mad scientist came up in that time? Perhaps he found a way to end the galaxy's miseries? Or perhaps he came up with a weapon of mass destruction to end more than mere miseries?

Yep, Psycho definitely hit my head hard.

I walk towards the door and punch the command hologram as Herrmann did before me. The door, with its mechanical accuracy, opens exactly as I remembered it from two weeks ago. And I am greeted by one of the two hallways as well as the living room.

"… For the last time, Meran, stop calling me that!" – I hear a distinctively turian voice sound off, with visible annoyance in his voice. Good to see our resident anti-human turian is all right.

"0-2, objections noted. Resistance to evolutionist progress troubling, if unsurprising." – Meran replies. – "Still not even looking up from his work."

"Argh!" – Legerian groans in annoyance. – "Why can't you simply call me Legerian?"

"0-2, names inefficient." – Meran replies. – "Leave me be. Plenty of work to be done."

I see Legerian simply wave his talon in annoyance, as a sign of finally giving up, before he heads out to the other side of the room. As usual, he doesn't even acknowledge my presence.

Meran spots me, and with his usual casual tone notes:

"Ah, 0-5, good to see you're undamaged."

0-5? Seriously? What's up with the numbers?

"Meran, what's up with the numbers?" – I ask.

"He's been like that for the past week!" – Legerian shouts to me, finally acknowledging my existence.

Meran looks up from his work and stares at me for a few seconds, as if asking if I am serious.

"Surprised you don't know." – He answers. – "You inspired me."

At this, Legerian turns from his corner and walks towards me, in quite the threatening posture, and apparently preparing to attack. Oh, not this again…

Instead, his offensive comes out verbal instead of physical, much to my relief.

"_You_! You caused all this!" – He yells out accusingly.

"Hey, hey!" – I shout back, remembering the likeliest incident Meran could've been referring to as his inspiration. – "I just told him my name!"

"You humans!" – The turian says. – "Even your names are bad influence!"

Oh, I've had just about enough of your snide contempt and pointless accusations.

"Hey, oh-two," – I begin sarcastically. – "Chill out! The name's Pavlov, Sergei Pavlov!"

He just stares at me for a few seconds and growls in a rather low tone. I wait for something to happen, but… Nothing does. He simply turns away and walks back to the hallway where I originally met him and where Psycho nearly shot his head off.

Then the batarian comes out of his office and asks:

"What the hell just happened?"

Meran gets to it before I ever get a chance, which is probably for the best:

"Just a small argument with 0-2, nothing worth reporting, 0-0."

The batarian simply sighs at this.

"Why do I have to be the absolute zero, again?" – He asks.

"Believe that has already been explained." – Meran replies and gets back to work.

"As for you – Pavlov, was it? – Come by my office. We have a few things to discuss." – He says before turning and going back to his office. Well, that's just great.

As he is my boss, whether I like it or not, I follow up few seconds later. As he enters his office, the door refuses to close, presumably detecting me. I guess the future indeed has some good tech.

I pass through those set of doors to be greeted by an oddly spartanic office. No decorations or shows of grandiose, which I somehow came to expect of a batarian. All for the better, as I have no wish to know of 'endeavors'.

As the door closes, he turns towards me, his four eyes staring at me with a piercing gaze.

"Psycho tells me you were at Torfan, is this so?" – He asks.

Were it not for the fact that this man decided the fate of my employment, I would've likely snorted.

"Yes." – I answer without any ceremoniousness.

He nods, as if contemplating this for a few seconds, before continuing his line of inquiry:

"Tell me honestly, how does this affect your views of me as your commander?"

Oh, this egotistical bastard…

"Honestly?" – I say, with uncontrollable anger slipping into my voice. – "I'm not thrilled."

Surprisingly enough, his face only descends into what I judge to be bitterness.

"It was to be expected." – He says. – "I have a simple rule."

"Oh?" – I say.

"Off battlefield? Think of me whatever you like." – He continues. – "On battlefield I expect you to follow my orders without questions. I will _not_ have one trooper compromising the entire squad."

Seeing my silence for a few seconds, he finishes:

"Can I expect you to follow this?"

Like I have a choice. If I say no, he'll kick me out and I'll slave away my days at a pizza industry. So yeah, I'll try to follow it.

"I'll do that." – I reply.

"Good." – He says. – "Now, onto your position within the Suns."

"I presume I passed Psycho's tests?" – I de facto state, as his tone makes this obvious.

"You were good enough according to her." – He says. – "But there's one more… Test, if you will, before I can consider you a full member of this squad."

"Another test?" – I ask, detesting the notion.

"Our squad got contracted to do a job." – He says. – "Nothing big, just one simple problem that needs to be eliminated. I'll send you with Legerian to take care of it."

"I hope Schmitz informed you of the fact that I just had my wrist broken?" – I inquire.

"I was also informed that your bones mostly healed." – He replies, his voice showing a straining patience. – "Besides, if you are to be a member of the Suns, you'll have to fight with bruises from time to time!"

I nod at this, really being in position to protest.

"The guy you're supposed to kill is located in the outer reaches of the city. I already gave Legerian the intel on him. He will brief you en route. Any questions?"

I just shake my head, not really wanting to ask him anything.

"Good. Now get in your armor and bring your weapons. Legerian should already be prepping the skycar by now." – He says.

I nod, and turn to exit his office. Not a second too soon, either. I don't want to loose my job.

From there I walk the short walk to the Barracks B, where I presume my never-worn armor still lays. I punch the control causing the doors to open, revealing Herrmann.

"Where were you?" – I ask, trying to start a conversation.

"Oh, I just went to the mess for a quick meal." – He replies.

After a short search, I find that my armor suitcase is located beneath the bunk bed.

"Are you planning on going somewhere?" – He asks me suddenly.

"The batarian's got a job for me." – I reply.

"Is that not lucky for you…" – He replies.

"So, does the paste come anywhere near the wrook?" – I ask, trying to pass time while trying to bring out the armor's undersuit.

"Anything passes that cooking disaster." – Herrmann replies.

"It wasn't that bad!" – I try to defend that particular project while sliding into the undersuit.

"I know you want to attach some sort of pride with your little experiment, but it was objectively a biological weapon." – He replies.

"'Biological weapon' is going too far." – I state while trying to figure out where various plates are supposed to be connected.

"That is how you yourself described it." – He retorts.

Time to quote Mordin…

"I made a MISTAKE!" – I reply, the salarian's intonation included.

Herrmann gives me one of his many odd looks before saying:

"I fail to see the need to get that excited over it."

Oh, of course he wouldn't get the reference. And even if he did, I'm likely quoting an actual person's last few words for the sake of humor. And I find that more than a little distasteful right now. However, I still have an armor to get on.

"How the hell do you get this thing on?" – I ask, after seeing that there's no possible way I can figure this thing out without RTFM-ing. The problem is there is no manual.

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And here I was. Ready for my first job and hoping I won't screw up. Who is this guy we're supposed to be taking down, anyway? Some sort of crime boss who stepped on too many toes? Some sort of outlaw? Can I really even guess this correctly?

"We're approaching the LZ." – I hear the turian next me say. – "I should probably make sure you won't screw up completely and brief you."

Well, his attitude aside, this should clear up some things.

"I won't bother explaining to you how this guy looks, as he'll be marked on your HUD." – He says.

Heh. The whole HUD thing is something I have yet to get used to. Seeing blue-colored tidbits of info right before your eyes is something that I find a bit odd. Given that I practiced with Psycho in a HUD-less environment, I wonder if this overflow of info will distract me in combat?

"It's night so there won't be a large crowd. He'll be meeting some others." – He continues. – "They are irrelevant, but it's preferred that you don't kill them."

"What about our bounty?" – I ask.

"Five thousand creds." – He replies. – "Thousand of which is going to the Command, two and a half of which I get and thousand and a half of which you get."

Wait, what? Why does he get a thousand more credits?

"Why the hell would you get a whole thousand more?" – I ask.

"'Cause you're not a full member of the Suns yet." – He replies. – "If you want it, try and take it. By Spirits, just give me a reason to put you down…"

Seriously now? And he's supposed to be my squadmate?

"What's up with you and humans?" – I ask.

He doesn't reply to this at all. I see that the skycar's coming in for a descent. For some reason, I'm no longer as… _Excited_, as I once was by the event. Maybe a week with Psycho rubbed off on me?

The skycar lands unceremoniously and I get a look at the environment. It's not a rich district, but if the target is a criminal, hiding in the poorer districts makes sense. Still, I've got a bad feeling about this…

The doors open and we exit the vehicle. I grab my rifle and nod to Legerian. I'm ready, willing and able. Hopefully.

"Follow me." – He orders. Despite the darkness, his blue and white armor is still not good for stealth. I guess it's overrated anyway.

Legerian swings his Mattock – Logical, since an accurate rifle befits a designated marksman – Around, as if scanning for hostiles.

"Clear." – He sounds off before continuing his advance.

Aside from a few scared civilians in the darkness, only occasionally lifted by a street light (not the rich district, indeed), there's nothing. I guess a shadowy meeting has to take place in shadows?

The urbanized and decaying streets are relatively short, and it does not take us forever to reach our destination.

"We're here, get ready." – Legerian warns me. Hmpf, he manages to maintain professionalism on the field despite his previous slander. I guess he's following the Sergeant's rule.

Few steps further and we exit the alley we were in, and are greeted by a small square. This is actually fairly well lit area. There's a small group of people on the other side of the square. My HUD marks one of them in particular.

"There he is! Get him!" – Legerian orders.

One of the groupers notices us and warns the others. They disperse in various directions, much to our dismay.

"He's getting away! After him!" – Legerian orders.

Time to put all that practice to good use… Here we go, sprinting in three, two, one…

Damn, I haven't actually noticed just how heavy this armor thing is! And it's supposed to be _light _armor! Now I most certainly don't want to try out an actual heavy armor!

Before our target can actually get into an alley and loose us, my squadmate raises his rifle and fires of a single shot. The marker around the target tumbles and finally collapses onto the floor.

"Did we get him?" – I ask.

"Not yet. He's still alive." – Legerian replies.

Not giving our target any chance to regain his footing and escape, we quickly approach him. As we do, I can see that was unnecessary. Legerian's Mattock hit his leg and he's bleeding pretty badly.

Legerian turns towards me and orders:  
"Finish him off."

"What's the point?" – I ask. – "He'll already bleed to death."

"Then help him bleed faster." – Legerian argues.

Despite the unnerving screaming of the man below me, I continue my line of inquiry.

"Who is he, anyway?" – I ask.

"Doesn't matter." – Legerian's annoyed voice replies. – "Kill him."

Not a snowball's chance in hell am I going to kill him before I know who he is. This is all reeking of a pointless murder and I'll take _no _part in such a thing! I mean, look at him! He looks like a gangster about as much as any of us!

Through his agony, the man actually manages to speak:

"They didn't even tell you, did they?" – He says.

Legerian suddenly raises his rifle at me.

"I said: Kill him!" – He orders in a threatening voice.

"Who do you think you're killing? A criminal? A murderer?" – He continues his monologue, and I am left clueless as to what to do… I guess it had to come to this eventually, but killing a man? And not even in self defense. Have I really fallen this low?

"Don't make me repeat myself." – Legerian warns in a low, growling voice.

"You're killing just a simple man who wanted a fairer Bekenstein…" – The target finally finishes his speech before returning to his previous screams of agony.

If what he's saying is true… And I'm afraid I believe him, then this is a simple murder. I mean, I've seen my share of death… But to cause actual death? By my own hands? Am I really even considering it?

"KILL HIM OR I'LL KILL YOU!" – Legerian finally snaps, his flanging voice making it all the more intimidating.

And, almost beyond my control, the hand that has unconsciously raised the rifle at this man below me pulls the trigger. Just for a second, if that long. The practiced three rounds exit the barrel of the gun and not even a tenth of a second later hit the man. For a moment, he jerks unnaturally and then finally simply lays still.

No… No, no, no… I didn't pull the trigger, it had to be Legerian! I didn't just kill a man, that was my squadmate… Right? I-I-I mean, I couldn't have! I'm not a murderer!

"Finally." – Legerian says with a sigh, shattering any illusions of just happened. – "Let's get out of here before the cops arrive."

I, instead, opt to just stand there, not willing to accept what just happened. Have I really done it?

"Spirits, get caught by the cops on your own free time!" – Legerian shouts.

I finally snap out of it and follow him.

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No matter what just happened, this paste tastes awful and nothing will ever change that.

But I guess I have one thing to thank it for… It gave me something else to think about besides what happened back on my first 'mission'. I've read the news and he was nobody important doing nothing illegal. Just a man trying to organize a union with his coworkers in face of the dropping wages, a situation I understood only too well.

But in the end, what worried me most was not the fact of who I killed. It was how easily I did it, as if it was something natural to me. Ever since I joined the Suns I knew that I'd have to kill someone eventually… But I expected to be fighting someone who'd try to kill me first, justifying my kills in self-defense, but this… There was no self-defense in this. The man I killed would've never threatened me in any way.

Despite my initial reluctance to kill the man, though, the Sergeant accepted me as a full member and gave me my one and a half thousand. But that was a bitter-sweet victory at best.

Even though I was in the Mess in an effort to be alone, giving me a chance to sort… Well, everything out, I heard the familiar sound of a hiss that the doors produce when opening. I looked up to notice Psycho.

"Heard ya made your first kill." – She says.

"Strange to see you of all people come down to talk to me, especially after our little… Encounter back at the woods." – I reply. – "Did you by any chance come to finish the job?"

She shakes her head, her trademark grin ever-present.

"Not so soon, Pavlov." – She replies. – "So, how did it feel?"

"Hmm?" – I ask, not really feeling like dwelling on the deeper meaning of her words.

"To take a life, how did it feel?" – She asks.

"Odd that you would ask such a question. You have far more experience in those matters than I." – I note, if a bit uncaringly.

"Just answer the question, will ya?" – She says.

So she's making a mockery out of this?

"It didn't feel like anything!" – I snap. – "I just pulled the trigger and he was gone! Get it? Gone!"

As she moves away from the doors, they close. Huh, I never figured her as the type to care for privacy. She nods with and glances at me with a knowing glaze.

"Ya're learnin', then." – She says.

"Learning what?" – I ask.

"The truth. Ya just learned the truth behind the sacredness of life." – She replies. – "There is no sacredness. It's as easy to take away as anythin' else. Fragile thing, we organics."

"What do you want from me?" – I ask in a low, practically growling voice.

"'N' ya learned another important thing." – She notes while staring at the paste. – "Life feeds on death."

"I'm in no mood for your cryptic bullshit." – I reply.

"Cryptic? Only for ya." – She replies. – "Where do ya think the paste comes from? It comes from the twenty percent tax ya gave to the high command. Life feeds on death, literally."

"What do you want from me?" – I ask, increasingly agitated by her mere presence.

"I'm just being a friend, Pavlov." – She replies.

"A friend?" – I snort at the thought, half at the amusement factor it provides, half at its sheer ridiculousness.

"I'm just teachin' ya how to survive." – She 'clears up', as usual.

"Why should I even consider listening to anything you have to say?" – I ask.

"'Cause I did this for longer than ya even existed and I'm still here." – She replies.

As much as I hate to admit it, she actually has a point… This is not back home, on Earth. I will need to learn the rules of this place, to survive… Come to think of it, I haven't even thought all that much of my former life up until this point. Life hasn't given me a break in the month I was here. All I ever knew is gone… But I still don't have the time for such thoughts.

"What's your stake in all this?" – I ask Psycho, as self-interest seems to be the one constant theme here.

"Ya have potential." – She replies.

"Surely you mean Herrmann?" – I say. – "You always were the one to criticize everything I do."

"Schmitz's a better marksman than ya, no doubt 'bout that." – She says. – "And probably a better cook too. But he lacks the potential ya've shown."

"Oh?" – I ask.

"Not many would've took off their trainin' armor, y'know." – She replies. – "That's your potential. Flexibility."

If I have the flexibility, who's got the reach? Ugh, now I have some mental imagery that cannot be unseen…

"Schmitz has his morals and he won't deviate from 'em." – She continues her monologue. – "Far greater idealist than even ya. But ya… Ya've shown that ya're willin' to do what it takes to win."

"Are you accusing me of hypocrisy?" – I ask, not liking where this is going.

"I'm accusing ya of being smart enough to realize what ya must do." – She retorts. – "And that means ya have a future in the Suns."

"Yeah, inaccuracy's the way to go!" – I reply sarcastically.

"Y'know what I mean." – She says. – "Schmitz won't seize the chance when it's not to his likin'. Ya will. And I'm offerin' to help guide ya."

I just stare at her, not really having anything to say. I'm too deep in an internal conflict to say anything. And that's because as much as I want to deny it, her words reek with brutal, unforgiving truth.

When it was necessary for survival, I joined a criminal organization. When it was necessary, I cheated. And in the end, when it was necessary, I killed. Is this what I am? A simple opportunist and a murderer? The worst part about it is, I would do it again if I had to. Without a single thought.

Seeing that I'm not interested in furthering this discussion, Psycho turns around, and without even a simple farewell leaves me alone with my thoughts.

**A/N: And there you have it. The first chapter ever that's over six thousand words. That's over three times the first one. Hopefully it wasn't a big disappointment and was actually worth reading.**

**Speaking of which, thanks for reading! See you in the next chapter!**


	9. Para Bellum

**A/N: Well, it was a week. Or perhaps a few days over a week, I am uncertain. Either way, I've got no excuse except my own laziness. Which isn't much of an excuse anyway.**

**Updates are likely going to slow down at roughly similar rate as this one has, as finals are quickly approaching and that's something I've got to prepare for. Thanks to that, my ability to update will be compromised. As if it already wasn't.**

**Either way thanks for all the views and reviews guys!**

**And thanks once more to DelVarO for promoting my little story! And once again, if you haven't, check out his story, Massed Up!**

**Now, without further ado…**

**Para Bellum**

I silently sigh. It's been two weeks since that fateful mission. Two full weeks. And I'm still left unable to get a good night's sleep, and the daily sleepiness I have as a result isn't helping me out at all. Herrmann, who apparently took secondary psychology classes, would have it that this is normal. If that's the case, normal sucks.

But what's the point of rethinking the same thought over and over again? If I didn't break the thousands this night alone, I'm fairly close. I suppose that as an insomniac I have to do _something_ during the night. Thinking about Psycho's 'lessons'? No thanks. Thinking as to why Herrmann's sedatives aren't as effective as I'd like them to be? Nah, I'll pass. Thinking about how the hell I ended up in what I previously knew as a fictional game universe and got torn from everything I held dear? Too much speculation.

Then I am left with no choice. This is not something I do light-heartedly. I fully understand the implications of what I'm about to think. It's a sacrifice to be sure, but the lesser of evils. I hope that this'll be properly appreciated in the future.

So yeah, I silently sigh. It's most definitely been two whole weeks since that fatefu-

The alert klaxon, ever so conveniently placed _right above _the bunk we're using, sounds off with its ear-shredding melody. This could mean everything from Sergeant calling us up for whatever reason to hostile assault on the hideout. As such, I quickly trace my pistol and jump out of the bed. For Herrmann, this takes a few seconds longer, as he had the disadvantage of actually being asleep.

Not really waiting for my squadmate, I punch the control, only to reveal the thankfully anti-climactic scene of Meran looking up from his work – Though, considering that he rarely does this, it could also be considered _highly_ climactic – As well as Psycho chatting it up with Legerian, though by all appearances being bored.

Roughly at the same time Herrmann decides to join the 'let's figure out what the hell's going on' club, the Sergeant can be seen exiting his office, pacing with a hurried tempo towards the living room, giving (Herrmann, presumably) a polite nod.

The road to the living room hasn't lengthened since the last time it has been used, so it takes it up to three seconds to cross the short distance towards it, giving the growing assembly more than enough time to well, assemble.

"What's up Sarge?" – Psycho speaks up.

"We got a communiqué from the Suns Command." – He replies nearly immediately. – "There's a large operation in preparation and it begins at dawn."

"Ergo, why the alarms have awoken us in the middle of the night?" – Herrmann pipes in. I decide to keep quiet, having nothing useful to contribute.

"Exactly." – The Sergeant replies. – "We didn't get wind of this until few minutes ago, but it's big."

"Define 'big'." – Meran requests.

"Nineteen other squads, six strong each." – He replies. – "In total a hundred and fourteen troopers, with the remainder standing in reserve."

Nearly hundred and twenty troopers? I don't think you faced that many Blue Suns in the entire Mass Effect 2…

"That has to be a battalion's worth…" – I mutter unconsciously to myself.

"Company's worth." – The Sergeant corrects me without missing a beat.

"But what is the operation itself?" – Herrmann asks.

"I'm glad you asked." – The Sergeant replies, followed by activation and usage of his omni-tool.

The screen of what I once thought was a TV – Much to Meran's dismay – Flickers to life and displays… Apollo Square? At least I think it is. It's huge and from what my relatively faulty memory can tell me, it looks like it.

"I think you all recognize the famed Apollo Square." – The Sergeant states. – "That's where we're headed. You've all been there and know how it is. Open, little cover and plenty of potential to be turned into slaughterhouse."

No, actually, Mr. Batarian, I haven't thought of a civilian square in terms of military besiegement and victory-or-death charges.

"The leadership of a small human corporation, Avanta Arms Industry, is coming to the square. Allegedly, they're going there to meet up with their Rosenkov Materials counterparts to sign some sort of treaty." – The Sergeants explains. – "We're going there to make sure they don't come out alive."

I don't know why this feels so predictable.

"There will be twenty Arms Industry officials." – Our leader continues. – "And I was told they'd be accompanied by hired mercs – Eclipse."

I notice that Psycho somehow seems distracted by the mention of Eclipse… Hmm, I wonder why?

"The plan of attack is this." – Sergeant continues, as the slideshow on the screen does. – "The nineteen squads will split into two groups: Sword and Shield. Shield will consist of ten squads. They will block off all avenues of escape as well as prevent government interlopers from interfering."

The slideshow shows accordingly, with ten dots scattered around what I guess are strategically important spots of the Square.

"The Sword will consist of the remaining nine squads, who will attack and annihilate the enemy. Our squad's been assigned to the sword." – He continues. – "The Sword will be under direct command of Centurion Hanson."

"The same guy who was in charge of the selection?" – Legerian suddenly pipes in. – "That's just great…"

Oh, isn't he ever satisfied with anything? What's wrong with the good ol' Centurion? He _did_, after all, accept me into the Suns, effectively granting me survival.

"Respect your superiors, trooper!" – Our leader yells out.

And thus Legerian just gave me another reason to dislike him. I was just forced to partially agree with the Sergeant.

Legerian, not apparently being satisfied with this outcome either, just glares at the Sergeant for the briefest moment, before apparently realizing the counterproductive futility of doing such.

"Now, as I was saying," – Our leader continues. – "We'll under command of Centurion Hanson. His orders supersede my own and I expect you to follow them."

"'N' what can we expect in terms of hostiles?" – Psycho asks.

"I was just getting to that." – Sergeant replies. – "From what I was told, we're to expect about thirty Eclipse mercs."

At this our Designated Marksman snorts in apparent amusement.

"Cut it out, Legerian!" – The batarian warns. – "The Eclipse are not to be underestimated!"

"They don't pack enough firepower to harm us!" – Legerian retorts.

"Caution advisable, 0-2. Eclipse may not posses firepower, but tech and biotics are advantages." – Meran points out.

"If it can't get through my shields, it ain't a bother." – Legerian says.

"Tech takes care of shields." – Meran retorts.

And with that, everyone's least favorite anti-human turian marksman finally shuts up.

"Legerian, I'd appreciate if your interruptions would cease. Your chatter's useless." – The sergeant, quite ironically, echoes my opinion.

"We leave for the rendezvous point at oh-four hundred hours." – The Sergeant finishes his little briefing. Hmm, that puts it roughly two hours from now. – "Prepare. Once we hit the Square, keep your eyes on the enemy, fingers on your triggers and you might just make it out alive. Any questions?"

And at that cue I finally speak up:  
"How much do we get paid?"

"Fifteen thousand creds each." – The Sergeant replies with sheer simplicity.

Wait, did I hear that right? Fifteen thousand? Wow… Just, wow. That's more money than I seen in my life… Here, anyway. I'm not sure how credits compare to money back home.

"Alright, everyone dismissed." – The Sergeant orders after few moment's silence.

Guess it's time to prepare for my first ever mission… I'm a bit nervous. And by the disapproving look on Psycho's face, it shows.

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I take a good long look at the greased assault rifle in front of me. It's in parts and I've got to clean and reassemble it. Again. Damn it, Psycho!

"Why do we have to do this every third day?" – I ask. This is yet another already asked question, but if it delays the cleaning by a few seconds it's fully worth it.

"Already told ya." – Psycho replies. – "We have to do it 'cause ya gotta learn how to a rifle works."

Of course, contrary to what a friend that served in the army back home told me, there _is _an omni-tool program designed to cover getting the rifle out of storage and cleaning it. And as my omni-tool is military-grade, the program is on it. However, Psycho insists that I do it the old-fashioned way. With a piece of cloth and something that strangely resembles petroleum.

"A simple slideshow would've sufficed." – I de facto whine.

"Nah. Practical experience's always better than theory." – Psycho replies as she seats herself at the side of the table opposite of mine. Of course, she _doesn't _have to do anything. She's just here to critique my work.

"Why do I need to know how an Avenger works anyway?" – I ask as I seat myself and prepare the said petroleumoid or whatever it's called as well as the piece of cloth.

"'Cause Avengers aren't the most reliable thing out there. They'll break down and you'll need to know how to fix 'em." – She replies.

Figuring it might just buy me a few more seconds, I inquire:

"And how precisely is knowing how to disassemble my rifle supposed to help me fix it?" – I say.

Psycho rolls her eyes.

"I 'lready told ya!" – She replies. – "Ya have a program on your omni-tool that uses up all that pesky omni-gel!"

Right. I guess there goes my last for standing around doing absolutely nothing at all except chatting it up with Psycho. Gah.

"What do we start with?" – Psycho asks me, as if she was some sort of teacher or instructor.

"The barrel." – I reply, picking up the said piece. It is worth noting that this Avenger rifle has next to no moving pieces. It's all handled automatically.

While I pick up the cloth, already pre-stained in cleaning solution, I ponder the meaning of all this. These rifles weren't based on gunpowder, but on mass effect fields. Yet they still recoil like hell. Why? One would think if you took away the explosive, you would get a recoilless rifle.

As I begin cleaning the barrel's exterior, I suddenly (and rather awkwardly, come to think of it), ask:

"If these guns don't have gunpowder, why do they still recoil?"

I receive a blank stare from Psycho and realize just what stupidity I uttered. Next to anyone here would've been familiar as to why.

"It's just that I'm more familiar with ancient Earth guns, like flintlocks." – I reply. That's at least partially true, but since she broke my wrist I don't owe her truth anyway.

"Right." – She just slowly replies. – "Well, y'know, that physics law, every action has an equal and opposite reaction?"

Same answer I got from Meran. It still doesn't make sense to me.

As I, using improvised tools, start cleaning the interior of the barrel, my inquiry continues:

"But in gunpowder powered rifles there's an action, the explosion that propels the round." – I say, remembering some documentary on guns I watched a while back. – "And isn't a mass effect field just an energy field?"

"Ya should probably ask Meran." – Psycho replies shrugging. – "My life educated me in killin', not how it happens."

I nod, continuing my already practiced cleaning.

"Come to think of it, you never told me much about your life." – I ask, actually curious for once.

"Ya already know more than enough." – She replies in a bit of a harsh voice. Ouch! I guess I had it coming. My intrapersonal skills are at it again. Damn. That was fairly idiotic of me. Should've guessed that she didn't have the most pleasant life.

I wordlessly continue cleaning the rifle, abandoning the barrel and moving onto the next piece, which I recognize as the… Gah, I know what it's for, but I have no idea what Psycho called it. I know it was Mass Effect something…

"Ya did promise me something." – She says, the defensiveness and harshness suddenly not in her voice.

"I did?" – I ask. Why is it that I'm the last one to learn these things?

"Hint: Flintlocks." – She says with her classical grin back on her face.

Flintlocks? I mentioned them just now, but I didn't… Wait a second, my memory's actually returning some results here…

"Ah!" – I exclaim, finally remembering. – "You must mean back at the training camp!"

She slowly nods, giving me a go-ahead to proceed with my flintlocking tales. Well, it's not as if I have anything better to do… And plus, from what I've learned, Psycho always gets what she wants. One way, or the other. And I _really _don't feel like finding out what the other way is. Not since she broke my wrist.

The expectant gaze of my squadmate seals my decision. I mean, it's not like it's any sort of special story or anything…

"Back in high school, there was this little trip to a museum that got organized." – I begin the simple'n'short story. – "The museum had a weapons exhibit, which among other things featured flintlocks."

With that expectant gaze of hers, she's gonna get disappointed real quick. Well, I can tone down that nervousness rising in my by cleaning yet another part of the Avenger.

"The high point of the actual exhibit was that they built a fully functional replica of an ancient flintlock rifle – A musket, to be exact. It wasn't loaded with any actual bullets, but they let some of us fire it off with blanks. I was among those." – I wrap up my rather anti-climatic story.

Psycho just shakes her head and chuckles for a while. What? Have I said something funny?

"I wasn't interested in your tale…" – She finally explained. – "I wanted to hear how them flintlocks work."

Oh, so it was a variant of my question on why mass effect-powered rifles recoil?

"I hope I don't get another broken wrist for that." – I mutter off, my _undeniable_ interpersonal brilliance at it again…

"Ya still bitter 'bout it?" – Psycho asks, with feigned surprise. – "It's just a broken wrist!"

"That may be a 'just' for you, but let me assure you, you're the only one in this room to think so!" – I retort.

"We're alone in the hanger!" – Psycho points out.

"Details!" – I semi-jokingly scold. She had to ruin a perfectly good point, didn't she?

"_Important _details!" – She takes her turn at retorting, with a certain… Warning edge to it.

Yeah, I could continue this, but I feel that it is not in my best interest to do so.

"Anyway." – I say, trying to steer far away from the previous discussion. – "You said you wanted to know how flintlocks work?"

Her attention snaps back to me in an instant, apparently uncaring of the previous discussion.

"I don't know precisely how they work, but I've got a fair idea." – I continue after her silence. – "You heard of gunpowder?"

"Uh-uh." – She replies. – "Some sort of ancient explosive, right?"

"Yeah, that's it." – I say. – "See, most of the pre-mass effect human rifles used it as a propellant for the bullet. The flintlocks were no exception. Unlike later guns, the gun powder was manually loaded into the barrel, followed by the bullet. Mind you, the bullet was nothing like the modern conception of it. It was pellet shaped."

Psycho seems oddly engrossed in all of this. I mean, I know that she's a dedicated killer, but what use is a flintlock to her anyway?

"These rifles featured a trigger like any modern rifle, but the trigger didn't trigger off the gunpowder by itself, rather activating the flintlock mechanism, which in turn activated a cap which activated the gunpowder." – I wrap up my knowledge of flintlockism – Is that even a word?

"Seems too complex to be effective." – She notes after a few seconds' silence.

"It was an early design." – I explain, though I never was a complexity apologist. Not since I saw how complex an Avenger is.

"That's no excuse." – Psycho retorts.

"No, but it's an explanation." – I reply.

"Just helps to prove that idiocy is eternal." – Psycho adds her opinion.

Oh, this is going nowhere… Unlike my gun cleaning, which is actually doing something. And so silence befalls the hanger once more. Yet, there is still one standing issue that's bothering me.

"Psycho," – I begin. – "Tell me, back at the woods, why did you go as far as to break my wrist?"

She looks at me intently for a while, as if trying do decide the course of action she should take. Then, a few seconds later she speaks up:

"Was just making something clear..." – She says.

All right, Psychonian Explanation should be its own grammatical category – Explain something by making it even less clear. But at least she didn't say that she did it because she was bored. Somehow not knowing why someone did something is better than knowing they did it

"Making what clear?" – I ask.

"That I'm in charge, not ya." – She replies. – "Fact is, despite your potential, ya're still unskilled."

Alright, I don't like the idea of her being in charge of anything, not since I spent two weeks being under her command. Thank you, but no thank you.

"Yeah, that you're my mentor or something…" – I mutter off yet again.

"Mentor's going too far. More like someone willin' to teach." – She replies. – ""N' not obliged to teach. If ya want to learn, fine. If ya don't, fine. It's just that one's stupid and the other is showin' signs of intelligence."

… And there she goes with philosophy again. It's not that I didn't like to 'philosophize' from time to time back home, but when listening to Psycho's philosophy, I fear for my sanity. It's not the fact that it doesn't make sense that concerns me. On the contrary, it's the fact that the longer I'm around her, it actually _starts _making sense.

But whatever. I got my answer. Or rather, as close to it as I'm gonna get. Still, there's some more conversation to be had… I hope. Cleaning a rifle is such a tedious task.

"You know…" – I begin.

"'F course I do. I lived longer than ya ever will!" – She interrupts. Oh, Psycho…

"_You know_," – I begin anew. – "Back at the briefing when the Eclipse was mentioned you seemed… Distracted. You sure you're OK?"

She chuckles at this. Oh come on, that wasn't even remotely funny!

"What is it to ya?" – She asks suddenly.

"Just a concern for a squadmate." – I reply.

"But whaddya get out of it?" – She continues her inquiry.

"Uhh… Nothing?" – I reply.

At this she bursts out laughing. Apparently someone forgot to tell me about some joke. Or something. It's not as if I get Psycho half of the time.

"Someone doing something outta sense of altruism?" – She says as she finishes her laugh. – "Either fiction or a dead man."

Alright… Fuck my life. I don't get what's going on here. At all.

"I'll tell ya what ya get outta it." – She continues. – "Assurance that I'll watch your back when we hit the Apollo Square."

Such a cynical view she's got there… I guess I can appreciate that. But that actually brings me a question.

"Then what do you get from 'teaching' me?" – I ask. – "You never said what your stake in all this is."

"Ya will find out soon 'nuff." – She replies, awfully reminding me of a certain cryptic asari from a certain fanfic I read back home… – "But lemme assure ya, I have my uses for ya."

Know what? I preferred when I didn't get glimpses at her plans for me. Somehow I get the feeling it'll make the whole broken wrist ordeal look like a minor thing. Well, one _could _argue that since Herrmann healed it so quickly, it _is _a minor thing… But I'm not the one who's gonna do it.

Still, I had roughly half a dozen parts to clean yet. I guess it's still conversational time. It may degrade my sanity, but it does it less than cleaning a rifle.

"You know, I noticed that we're taking on the Avantian leadership on the ground." – I say.

"Y'know, I noticed a lot of your sentences start with 'you know.'" – She says in turn.

"Not the point." – I point out.

"Ya didn't have any point." – Psycho says.

Hmpf… True enough.

"Well, wouldn't it make more sense to attack them while they're still in the air? It'd risk far less troops and equipment." – I make my point.

"Y'see, I worked with the good ol' Centurion before." – Psycho formulates her response. – "He'sn't the brightest tactician, but he also knows that the Eclipse pretty much holds monopoly on the air."

"What, the Blue Suns don't have that many gunships?" – I ask.

"Nuh-uh." – She says. – "Not on Bekenstein, anyway. We got plenty dropships, though."

Guess that explains it. If you don't have gunships to shoot down enemy dropships, use your dropships to drop troops that'll drop your enemies. Makes sense.

"You know, isn't it kind of odd that we're spending this much time together? _Especially _after I broke my wrist?" – I ask.

"The only thing I know is that ya use 'you know' too much." – Psycho retorts. – "If ya want psychology lessons go bother Schmitz."

What's up with her cheerful-passive-aggressive attitude anyway? She wasn't the one who got her wrist broken.

Either way, my fully healed wrist proceeds to pick up the last part of this damned rifle and clean it off.

"Isn't it weird, though? That a trained surgeon would go to psychology classes?" – I think out loud.

"Wouldn't ya know better than I?" – Psycho replies with her own question. – "Ya spend far more time with 'em than I."

That's true enough. He's roughly the sanest one on the squad. I'd count myself among those still sane, but the worrying amount of time I spend with a certain asari psychopath really undermines my arguments.

In the end, though, am I really sane? I mean, for all I know, I could be in some sort of coma and am dreaming all this. Or perhaps I was in coma up until now, and this _is _reality? Or perhaps this sort of thought will drive me genuinely insane?

This whole situation is insane, though. Thought it that way back when I got here, am thinking that way right now. At least I'm relatively consistent.

And with a few hurried moves, I finally finish cleaning my rifle. With a simple push of a button on wristwatch-like chassis of the omni-tool it springs back to life. With a few pushes of a button, I'm ready to initiate the final phase of the cleaning, also known as drying the rifle. The petroleumoid apparently conducts electricity, which means that if I don't properly dry this utterly electrified bastardization of a proper rifle, it will explode in my face.

"What the hell do ya think your doing?" – Psycho suddenly exclaims.

I roll my eyes. Here it comes again…

"Just making sure this thing doesn't blow up in my face." – I reply.

"Close the tool." – She orders, her characteristic grin wiped from her face.

"Oh come on! This rifle has to be ready for combat in twenty minutes!" – I retort. This is ridiculous. – "And if I don't dry this thing properly it'll blow up!"

"If ya're stupid enough to misdry it, then big damned loss." – She replies. – "Put. It. Down."

"Of for god's sake, Psycho…" – I exclaim, only to be cut off by the other party in this conversation.

Psycho wordlessly pulls out her pistol and as I can see what's down the barrel I guess it's aimed _directly _at my head.

"Hey, hey!" – I say. – "No need to do something you'll regret!"

And hence, I uttered the possibly greatest mistake of my life. Since from what little I know of Psycho, she wouldn't regret it at all.

"Don't make me repeat myself." – She says what I guess is my final warning.

With a hastened move, I turn off the said omni-tool, because truly, I get the feeling that making Psycho repeat herself is not the best idea.

"Now pick up a new piece of the cloth and try to dry it off." – She commands further.

As there is a gun aimed at my head, I'm left without any choice but to comply. Oh, and if this blows up in my face, I'm coming back to haunt her.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

I wearily glance upon my rifle once more. Why won't Psycho allow me to take the easier route? Right now, I wish she was efficiency crazed, like Meran. Then again, psychotic and efficiency crazed? Do I want to know how that would turn out?

But what's done is done. If this rifle is rigged to blow up, it will. Nothing I can do about that now. Except perhaps switch over to my pistol, but the decreased firepower is not something you want when fighting against numbers roughly equal to your own.

But really, one thing sort of bothers me. Why did it have to start raining _exactly _when the dropship was supposed to arrive? I'm not so sure I want to be driving around in a huge chunk of metal while lightings are flying around. It's irrational, since pretty much everything here was made out of metal, but still…

"So, what do you think?" – I finally ask Herrmann, who is standing right next to me.

"What do I think of what precisely?" – He says.

"Well, it's your first mission and it's gonna be a firefight. What do you think?" – I explain.

"I _prefer _not to think about it at all." – He replies. I suppose he has a point.

Well, I suppose that rules out that particular conversation. What's left to do, then? Stand around here and succumb to boredom – A state of mind that in less than an hour I'd likely grow to appreciate once more?

Perhaps I should just enjo-

A massive, gunship-like vehicle, which I assume is our transport, suddenly pops into view, and positions itself horizontally off the landing platform, it's metal doors opening soon afterwards, revealing quite the group of mercs on the inside.

"That's our ride!" – The Sergeant points out the obvious. – "Everyone get in!"

Well, that's my cue. Matching the speed of the remainder of my squad, it takes a few seconds to find myself near enough to get in. As the pilot had the decency to not be too far away from the roof, it's roughly half a meter's jump, something even I am capable of.

Once inside, I notice that despite its visible length necessary to accommodate all the troopers inside, it doesn't have any chairs, and in fact oddly resembles a cargo hold. It's good to know the Blue Suns command respects us and appreciates our hard work.

As our Sergeant, being the last one, gets in, a turian in a rather imposing set of armor bangs his talons against what I presume is the door that leads to the dropship's cockpit, presumably to signal the pilot to move out.

Something that got its confirmation as the dropship suddenly accelerated, much to my dismay due to my poor stability.

The turian turns to face us, the greater crowd and announces:

"I'm Legionnaire Malitherax and I'm in charge of this section!"

This gets the attention of other troopers in the dropship.

"Once we're on the ground, you'll be under my command and I expect you to follow my orders to the letter!" – He continues. – "Do that and we may just go home in one piece, fifteen thousand creds richer!"

I can see several helmeted and several unhelmeted heads nod at this.

"You've all been briefed on the general ORBAT." – His speech goes on. – "Shield's already deploying as we speak and setting up checkpoints and deploying the Hammer AA missile encampments, effectively cutting off the Eclipse their aerial advantage. They want to send in gunships? Their credits to waste. They want to send in more troops? Their troops to waste."

I think I hear several oorah's at this. I guess the Eclipse isn't popular among the Suns.

"Expect three dozen troopers. We'll encircle them and they'll be massacred – But don't underestimate them. Their insidious engineers are notorious for fighting with their tools!" – He continues. – "There will likely be some civilians. If they're smart, they'll stay out of it, but if you aren't sure if a civvie is one of the Arms Industry's officials, shoot. Not one of our targets will escape."

Several ayes can be heard as the Legionnaire continues his briefing:

"We'll land on Apollo Square in a few minutes, so get ready and put your helmets on!" – He says. – "Once we're on the ground, I expect absolute discipline. We are an army and we'll fight like one! Defeatists, cowards and deserters will be shot! Give the enemy no quarter! Not one step back!"

Executions? What is this, the grim darkness of the 41st Millennium? By the looks of it, quite a few more troopers here share my concerns, but none are too foolish to voice their opinion.

Our Sergeant, being a batarian, is unfazed by this. Figures.

"You heard the man!" – He orders. – "Prepare for combat insertion! Helmets on!"

For once, I completely agree with him. I wouldn't like going into the battlefield without my helmet. With a swift motion, I detach my helmet from its spot on my armor and take it into my hands. With another deliberate, and somewhat practiced move, it slides onto my head.

The automated helmet immediately detects that it is needed online, and my eyes show the blue-texted startup sequence.

Our Sergeant continues his preps, and same can be said of the others.

"Weapons at the ready!" – He orders.

I reach out to my back and – Wearily – grab my potentially traitorous assault rifle into my hands. The thing extends into its standard operating mode, fitting into my hands exactly like I remember. Which is not a good thing per se.

"Sound off!" – Our Sergeant orders once more.

"Someone needs killin'?" – Psycho sounds off.

"Ready." – Legerian, with sheer simplicity, replies.

"Ready as well." – Meran says.

"I am prepared." – Herrmann sounds off.

Eh, I guess that leaves me.

"As ready as I'll ever be…" – I say, nervousness slipping into my voice.

The Legionnaire for a moment brings his talons to his communicator and a second later drops it, looking at us determinately.

"ETA's thirty seconds! Get ready!" – He informs us.

You know, come to think of it, this is all _very _ironic. In ME2 you got to shoot up bunch of faceless Blue Suns troopers. Now, thanks to this helmet, I _am _a faceless Blue Suns trooper. I hope Shepard isn't around. Especially if, as it would seem, I'm dealing with a renegade Shepard.

Though, technically in the game, Blue Suns troopers didn't have any face textures, and I do, so I'm less faceless than they were. Or am I? If someone gets that one lucky shot to the face, chances are no one will be able to identify who the hell I am. After all, I barely existed for a month here. And even with the face, there are only so many people who could potentially recognize me…

Suddenly, with an unceremonious hiss that could only reveal the undeniable age of this "dropship", the doors open to reveal the ever-familiar sight of Apollo Square, now deranged with visible tracers coming from both sides, the rain only intensifying the atmosphere.

"Prepare for drop in ten!" – The Legionnaire orders.

Our Sergeant wastes no time issuing the initial orders:

"Once we clear the dropship, everyone form up on me!" – He says.

I only manage to absently nod, too fascinated by the battle taking place in front of me… Hopefully, we won't be massacred on landing.

Suddenly few shots seem to hit the interior, and judging by the sound, the exterior of the dropship. Besides a few surprised troopers, this has little effect.

The panoramic view of the Square slowly disintegrates as the dropship hurriedly descends, the pilot likely not being a big fan of the whole concept of being shot at. And, mere seconds later, with an expected bump, it lands. I take one last short look at the battlezone I am about to enter and take a note of anything that could be used as a cover. The problem is, in an open square such as this, there isn't plenty of it.

"All units!" – The Legionnaire orders. – "Charge!"

I'm not the first one to move. Not by far. Those closer to the exit charge first, and it takes a second for my own legs to kick in. We the three squads exit the protective shell that is our drop ship. Nearly immediately shots are fired upon us from an unknown direction. Right now, no one cares about where the shots come from as much as getting to a spot where the shots aren't hitting you.

My HUD displays clearly my teammates and I rush to rejoin them. Turning into a disorganized mess is on nobody's agenda right now. Though, it's likely on the enemy's agenda to turn us into a disorganized mess.

I run in the same direction, and with a quick glance see where we're headed. A small, but sturdy-looking railing. At the roughly the same time I realize this, I hear the distinctive sound of someone's shields going down, followed by a sickly sound of someone getting hit.

I don't get the chance to see who's getting hit, as I am far too busy trying to get to cover. If my HUD's any indication, it isn't one of my squadmates. I'm somewhat glad at this.

Ignoring the protests my muscles lodge at the strain of sprinting at maximum speed in fifteen kilo armor, I soon enough reach the railing, and due to it's height – Or rather, lack of such – It is difficult to fit entirely in the cover. Still, flying bullets prove for quite the motivator.

Soon enough, the remainder of the squad reaches this oasis of relative safety. Looking back at where we came from, I can see at least three bodies… Nice going we have here. I'm just glad that I'm not among them.

I look at the railing as a whole and see that it actually stretches for quite the long distance, and the remaining squads have taken cover here as well.

The Legionnaire himself can be seen taking cover suspiciously near us. That can't be good. I have a feeling that nothing good ever comes from that guy.

His talons press his communicator again and he talks into it. Due to the sounds of battle, I am unable to hear whatever he's talking.

"Everyone alright?" – Our Sergeant asks.

I simply nod, as do the rest of us.

"What are our orders?" – Legerian asks.

"We wait for 'em!" – The batarian replies.

And with that, we all fall silent, as if listening for something. I throw a quick glance at my squadmates. Psycho's grinning as always, apparently quite _enjoying _the battle, Legerian's just holding tightly his rifle, batarian's doing the same, Herrmann's keeping his head as low as possible and Meran's fiddling with his omni-tool, uncaring for the world and battle around him.

The Legionnaire suddenly approaches us. This _can't _possibly be good.

"You!" – He says pointing at me. – "What's your name?"

Great, introduction time…

"Pavlov." – I utter, even if not too confidently.

"Trooper Pavlov!" – He addresses me. How did I know he didn't just want to be friends? – "I need you to perform a critical function!"

This is met by my silence.

"I've contacted the remaining two sections… What's left of 'em! They can't give me a clear SITREP!" – He says. – "I need you to raise your head above the railing at tell me what the hell is going on!"

Oh great… I hope Eclipse don't have snipers, since I guess the shields on this thing aren't the high-quality ones that can endure a few seconds of fire… Alright in three, two, o-

The Legionnaire points his rifle at me:

"Are you disobeying my orders, trooper?" – He asks in a perfectly calm voice. Great, first Psycho, now this Legionnaire. Is this becoming some sort of trend? Worse yet, no one seems to care about this. What a supporting and friendly squad I got into…

"No Sir!" – I hastily reply.

"Then do it!" – He orders with a scolding, inpatient voice.

Well, here goes nothing…

I quickly raise my head over the cover and scan the battlefield. Eclipse is quick to take notice of me, as bullets fly around me. Still… They seemed to be concentrated around the monument… Is that Neil Armstrong? – Wait, no irrelevant thoughts – Hmm, some cover, here and there, a few vanguard squads…

The next thing I know, something hits me and I fall down to the ground beneath me… My HUD indicates that my shield is gone and my chest feels strangely painful, even by post-Psycho standards!

"Shit!" – I yell out. – "I've been hit!"

At the edge of my vision I can see Herrmann rushing towards me, his omni-tool open. I lay still. In case I've got broken bones, it wouldn't be the best idea to move…

He scans me with his omni-tool before announcing:

"You are fine. The armor took the brunt of the impact, and you merely got yourself some bruises." – He says, with what I think is relief in his voice.

"Just like training…" – I mutter.

The Legionnaire, however, doesn't have time for this:

"Doesn't matter!" – He says. – "Report! What did you see?"

Oh, it's good to know that my safety is the priority here… Then again, _I_ joined the mercs. I don't have the right to complain. But it's not as if that ever stopped me before.

"They're concentrated around the Armstrong monument!" – I say. Wait a second, I'm not sure that's Armstrong monument… But whatever. It's the only monument in the battlezone. – "A few squads around it, keeping the perimeter, but they seem bunkered down at the monument itself. I guess that's where the corporates are hiding."

"Agreed." – The Legionnaire replies. – "Damn it!"

Oh, what now?

"We had a grenadier squad for this situation but that _idiot_ Hanson wasted them!" – The turian answers my unasked question, though seemingly primarily talking to himself. I guess the good ol' Centurion isn't popular in these parts… – "Have you seen anything of potential tactical value?"

Well, there was that one piece of cover…

"I think I saw a piece of cover that would block off their escape on the left!" – I say, left being my own left, of course.

The turian seems contemplative of this for a few seconds. The remainder of the squad remains silent… Oddly professional of them.

Suddenly, the turian flickers his omni-tool to life, and it in turn presents a holographic representation of this part of the square.

The turian looks at it for a few seconds and points his talon at one particular spot asking:

"This piece of cover?"

I take a good long look at it. Hmm, in relation to other things I saw… Well, possibly.

"Yeah, I think that's it." – I say.

"There can be no maybe!" – The Legionnaire replies. Great, we got ourselves a Javik here. – "The outcome of this battle may hang on it!"

I stare at the map for a few more seconds… Yeah, as far as I can tell, that's it.

"That's it. I'm sure of it." – I say, though not with the most certain voice in existence.

The turian seems more caring about my words rather than the way I said it, though. He stares at his map for a couple more seconds, his talons moving around it, as if to visualize troop movement.

His talon rises to his communicator without warning and he thus speaks into it:

"Centurion! I need you to send two squads to advance onto the southern flank on my command!" – The turian says. On his command? I guess we know who's really in charge here.

"First and Third sections only have three squads left!" – The familiar voice of the Centurion replies.

"I know!" – The Legionnaire replies. – "But I've got a plan!"

After a few second's silence, the Centurion replies:

"Alright."

He then turns his gaze towards us.

"You!" – He says, his talons encompassing the whole squad. – "You will go to the cover your squad member spotted! The two other squads will flush them out with the threat of encirclement and they'll be headed into your direction!"

Our Sergeant objects to this:

"What good will a single squad do against thirty troopers?" – He asks.

"Sixty troopers. We underestimated the Eclipse forces." – The Legionnaire admits. – "Your goal is to slow down their advance. Once they are flushed out into the open, the remaining squads will charge in from all directions and massacre the Eclipse!"

Hmm… As much as I hate to admit it, that actually makes sense. However Legerian doesn't seem convinced.

"That's bullshit!" – He says. – "From the looks of it we're under forty men! They got sixty by your own admission! Even out in the open, what good are forty men against sixty?"

Meran suddenly pipes in:

"Plan sensible. Eclipse rely on attrition to defeat their opponents. Blue Suns prefer brute firepower."

"Exactly!" – The Legionnaire agrees, before sliding his talon towards the communicator once more. – "This is Legionnaire Malitherax to Section Two! Prepare for covering fire!"

He then turns towards us once more:

"We'll prove you with covering fire and you'll move up! Understood?"

"Aye, Sir." – Our Sergeant replies.

"Let's just kill them 'Clipsies!" – Psycho decides to say for whatever reason. We just ignore her.

The turian nods, before sliding his hand onto the communicator for one last time.

"Section Two! Covering fire! Hit 'em where it hurts!" – He orders. A second later, with an almost symphonic precision, I hear an indomitable barrage of weapons fire open up further down the railing.

"Go!" – The Legionnaire issues one last order to us.

Our Sergeant takes the lead hear, vaulting over the railing with precision of a seasoned soldier. The rest of us follow, myself included (though rather clumsily, but still effective enough). The Sergeant sees the cover I was referring to and makes a run to it.

It seems that, few adrenaline-inducing shooters aside, most are focused on exchanging fire with our section. The cover isn't too far away, just some twenty meters.

Yeah, not to far away! I had to blast a few neurons and think that! Gah!

As soon as we're half way there, I can hear the Legionnaire over comm.:

"Centurion! Two squads! Go!"

Yeah, we definitely know who's in charge.

Even as we cross the not so small distance of twenty meters, surprisingly few Eclipse troopers spot us. I guess their Codex entry is true: They're high tech, but undisciplined and not well organized.

And some five seconds later we reach another set of railing – Which seems to be here simply to create some sort of barrier between the remainder of the square and the monument.

Damn it! As we approach, I see that the cover is also home to a dead civilian… Damned corporations and their wars. The others, besides perhaps Herrmann, who is outside of my view. Still, we have little choice but to settle in the cover.

"Second and Third Squads, Third Section, reporting! The Eclipse is mounting heavy resistance, but the targets are confirmed here!" – I hear over the comm.

"Charge!" – I hear the Legionnaire order.

"Sir! That'll cause heavy casualties! We'll be killed!" – The Squads report back.

"And if you don't charge I'll see to it personally that you're all executed for treason!" – The turian hisses over the comm.

Few seconds pass and nothing is heard. Finally the response comes in:

"Understood."

The more I hear of this Malitherax guy the more I hope I won't end up in his command.

Few dozen seconds pass. We can hear gunfire off in the distance, but no word from the Legionnaire. Nervousness is at an all time high. Psycho's annoyance seems to be at an all time high as well, contributing back to my own nervousness, which seems to be annoying her as well, thus creating an infinite loop of nervousness-annoyance-nervousness.

"Brace yourselves… They'll be coming soon." – Our Sergeant says.

"I hope." – Psycho replies without missing a beat.

"That's what I was afraid of…" – I mutter mostly to myself. Psycho, unfortunately catches this.

"Ya need to learn to stop worryin' and love the combat." – She says.

Knowing that arguing with Psycho is overall pointless, I don't reply.

"Do you… Hear that?" – Herrmann suddenly asks.

"Hear what?" – I ask.

Herrmann remains silent for a few seconds then replies nervously:  
"Gunships!"

And indeed, at roughly the same time I can hear something _strangely _resembling gunship's engines off in the distance.

"This is Shield. We have possible bogeys inbound." – I hear over comm.

"The Eclipse are beginning to make a run for it!" – I hear an unknown voice over comm.

"… Their gunships are on a suicide run to make sure that their ground assets and corporates escape…" – The Sergeant speculates.

"Contract must be valuable." – Meran says.

Then suddenly, for a few moments, the firing almost completely stops.

"They're on the run! Prepare to delay them!" – We hear Legionnaire's voice over the comm.

Psycho suddenly turns toward me:  
"Remember what I taught ya." – She says.

"Ready… Delay them!" – The turian commands us once more.

I look at our Sergeant, as if subconsciously asking for an approval, he nods and we raise our rifles towards the coming horde.

I take a few blind bursts, the rifle kicking back at my shoulder… Thanks to the armor, it actually hurts less than usual.

And then I see the horde. And holy shit! There are a lot of them! Our squad opens fire. Herrmann, Psycho and I insist on our three-rounders; Legerian, Meran and the batarian aren't as discriminating, preferring full auto, with the exception of Legerian who's taking accurate single shots.

The Eclipse take note of us. I don't think we took down any of them yet, but we got their attention. There's confusion among their ranks as some stop to fire back and others stumble over them in an attempt to keep moving forward.

Without any previous warning, one of enemy trooper's heads explodes.

"Boom, headshot!" – Psycho cheerfully announces.

Oh god, I get the feeling I unleashed a monster there…

"All units!" – I hear the Legionnaire. – "Charge to glory!"

And in the next few seconds, we can see the remainder of our forces charge relentlessly into the confused Eclipse forces. And so our own turn to charge came. The ridiculously high levels of adrenaline in my bloodstream prevented me from fearing as much as I thought I would, but fear was definitely present.

This is like one of those classic victory or death charges not really seen since the Second World War… And those rarely ended well for the troops. But as the remainder of the squad leaps over the railing, so do I. Groupthink will one day get me killed.

All that's missing from the scene is a battlecry. And I'm left too voiceless at the moment to do it.

Some of us – I being too focused on survival, can't tell which – Keep firing during the advance, likely not hitting anything, but still keeping some pressure on the Eclipse. Most of the Eclipse, realizing where the majority of the Blue Suns troopers were coming from turned away from us, but some, holding their position, kept their fire.

Suddenly a bullet impacts my shields, causing them by all indications to buckle and falter, but not collapse completely, which is perhaps my only saving grace at the moment.

Suddenly, a bright flash of blue comes from my side, as I turn, I see that Psycho is using her biotics. The next thing I know I hear screaming of agony coming from the previously opposing Eclipse troops, who now lay at the floor. My guess is, she used a shockwave. Meran is quick to catch on and launch an incineration, as one of the troopers catches on fire, much to others' dismay.

"Disperse!" – Our Sergeant orders.

Not really having the time to think about the logic behind his order, I separate myself from the rest of the group, as my eyes frantically scan for cover. My shields aren't going to last long, not even against panicked Eclipse.

Heh, I'm in luck there a crate-like thing a dozen meters from me… Guess someone forgot their cargo… I see, how very lucky for me.

I must admit, adrenaline or no adrenaline… All this running is starting to wear on the length of my breath… Or should I say, I am left short on breath? Damned sentence stylizism!

Damn it, my lungs aren't exactly up to this… Well, the enemy seems to be ignoring me… Guess I can slow down… What could possi-

Something powerful impacts my left leg and I fall down to Earth like a rock… If my shield meter's any indication I'm not going to like what's happening. I can hear that someone's firing at me, but I don't… Have… Time for this. I've got to get to cover…

My left leg's unresponsive but relatively painless… Thank the adrenaline… I abandon my rifle as I start crawling towards the cover…

Suddenly the idiot who was firing on me stops doing so.

"'Nother 'Clipsie's down!" – I hear the voice of my uh, _savior _over the comm.

Still… Have a few more meters to go. I can do this… I can do this… They're not going to kill me this time… I've gone too far in these few weeks to die…

Argh, the adrenaline seems to be wearing off, as my left leg is starting to hurt… Scratch that it's agonizing, but I have to move on… The cover's so close, yet so far away… But I've got to keep moving…

Another few bullets spray harmlessly past me… If I wasn't so short on breath I'd make sure they know that I don't have time for their bullshit… Gotta survive…

With a few last centimeters my hand is in range of the crate… Argh, should've listened to Psycho and did more pushups… Come on, don't betray me now, you traitorous damned arm… Argh, despite the pain I manage to climb into a sitting position, my back firmly placed against the crate.

"Sergeant," – I mutter into the comm., strain visible in my voice. – "I've been hit… For real this time…"

I look down onto my leg… Heh, the crimson liquid I'm bleeding ruined the paintjob…

"Bleeding like hell. Lost my rifle." – I finish my communiqué.

It takes several long seconds, but he replies:  
"I see you. What the hell are you doing all the way over there?" – He asks.

"You said disperse… I dispersed." – I explain.

"I said 'disperse', not 'break formation'!" – He scolds me. How was I supposed to know the difference? – "You're too far away. We can't get to you, it's too dangerous. You'll have to make it on your own."

Yep… A supporting and friendly group indeed…

"Understood… Sir." – I reply, not having much else I can do.

Well… That takes care of that little problem… Now about my lack of Assault Rifles. I look down to my right leg. I can see that my pistol's still firmly in place. Not for long, as I remove it and prepare it for combat.

Then I realize just how pointless that all was. It's not as if I can actually lean over the crate and fire. My left leg makes sure of it. Still, in case of any of the damned 'Clipsies decide to make a run for it in my direction… Heh, 'Clipsies? I'm spending too much time with Psycho.

Damn it, why didn't I notice it was this cold before? And why do I feel dizzy? Damn, this wound must be worse than I thought…

Wait… What is that, off in the distance? Not a ship and definitely not a sizable one… But a gunship. No, not one… Five. Five, I think. Guess there's one last way I can assist Blue Suns forces in this battle…

"This is Trooper Pavlov…" – I say despite the strain. – "We've got gunships inbound! Five of 'em!"

They seem to be getting closer…

"This is Shield, confirmed bandits inbound. Are we clear to engage?" – I hear my comm. unit sound off.

They're definitely coming closer… Damn it, I'm not Garrus, I can't take a missile to the face and survive… And I've got enough problems as it is, if the sizable poodle of blood is any indication…

"This is Legionnaire Malitherax to Shield forces. Hit 'em with all you've got!" – I hear our true commander's voice.

Huh… These gunships seem to be slowing down, and if the sound and image my brain's getting is any indication, they've opened fire. Off in the distance I can hear the screams and sounds of battle, but that's increasingly away from me…

"Fox two, fox two!" – I hear the comm. – "Missiles away."

Despite the evident explosions, I don't look up. I'm far too tiered and struggling to remain conscious… Why even bother? It's not as if I'll survive either way, really.

"This is Legionnaire to all units! Report!" – I hear the voice over the communicator.

"All hostiles clear here!" – I hear one reply.

"Negative contacts on this end!" – I hear the other.

"All clear over here." – I hear another reply.

However I pay them no heed. It's not a matter of my concern any longer. My time here is done, after all. And not many of those whom I known could've said they died on a distant planet fighting a futuristic battle anyway. I guess I didn't die an old man after all…

"Schmitz!" – I hear finally uttered into the comm. – "Patch Pavlov up! We're leaving!"

But it's too late for me. I'm dead anyway… No point holding onto what's lost.

And as darkness consumes me… Gah, what's the point of last words no one will hear…

**A/N: And there goes the ninth chapter. I hope you guys enjoyed it.**

**See ya in the next chapter!**


	10. The Die is Cast

**A/N: And here comes the tenth chapter. Despite the exams, I tried to finish it before the first month's anniversary of the publishing of the story, but I've failed by a day.**

**Still, I hope you enjoy! And as always, thanks for reading and thanks for reviews!**

**Now, without further ado… **

**The Die is Cast**

"I think he is waking up." – I believe I hear someone say as my now-open eyes try to adjust to the dark, yet still slightly illuminated room. Am I dead? If the screams are any indication, I ended up in hell. The reddish hue of this place would suit the descriptions of the place. Now, where are the sulfuric lakes?

Suddenly someone's hand grabs my chin and forces my head up, I being too sore to actually resist simply go along with it. I am greeted by another hand, this one waving right in front of me for some reason. Hell is certainly a weird place.

"As far as his eyes are concerned, he is, as a matter of fact, alive and conscious." – I hear _Herrmann's _voice say. Guess it isn't hell just yet.

"Fortunate, 0-4. Would be shame if we wasted the trip to this planet." – I hear a salarian's, and if the numbers are any indication, Meran's voice.

Herrmann simply nods at this, before saying:  
"Meran, check up on other wounded, will you?"

"Affirmative, 0-4." – The salarian replies.

With this, Herrmann turns his attention back to me:

"You are probably wondering what is going on." – He says. – "Let me give you a run-down: You managed to get yourself shot – Something which your fibula bone did not take well – And then nearly died from lack of blood."

Yeah, unfortunately I remember that part. However, due to my soreness I decide against actually saying anything.

"Now, I had to carry you to the extraction dropship intended for the wounded, and Meran and I being the only ones with any medical experience were ordered to board the dropship and take care of the wounded." – He continues.

Huh, I guess Meran was the team's doctor before Herrmann and I joined.

"How bad?" – I finally ask.

"What, your injuries?" – Herrmann replies – "Healing the gunshot wound was simple enough. However, the true problem is your fibula bone. The bullet managed to skim your bone with just enough force to fracture it. Not a complete fracture, mind you, but merely a partial one."

"You were able to fix it, right?" – I ask.

He sighs deeply at this before saying:  
"I am a doctor, not a magician. The human body is a very fragile thing and you seem intent to explore every possible way to prove that assertion." – He says. – "I managed to heal quite a bit, but in the end, that was worth only so much."

"It's a good thing we're headed back to the safehouse then…" – I note.

He chuckles bitterly at this.

"If only that was the case…" – He begins his explanation. – "Perhaps I didn't say everything. You see, not long after the battle was over the Bekenstein Police Department decided to pay us a little visit. We hastened out evacuation as much as we could, and we still had to leave some troopers behind. Then, the next thing we knew, we were receiving a communiqué from the Centurion saying that our safehouses are being raided."

"Then… Where are we going?" – I ask, confused about the situation.

"That Legionnaire – Malitherax was his name? – Formulated an escape plan." – The doctor replies. – "We're going to a military spaceport, the one where the refugee camp was."

"The cops are about to catch us, so we're surrendering to the military? What the hell?" – I say.

"You misunderstand." – Herrmann replies. – "We are not going to surrender to the military. We are going to hijack one of their ships."

"That… That's insanity!" – I say. – "How many of us are left?"

"Oh, with the wounded included? Fifty-eight on the last count." – He says. – "Fifty-seven, if that one trooper in critical passed away."

He then turns back to Meran.

"Meran!" – He says. – "Is that one trooper still with us?"

"Negative. His biological functioning stopped roughly a minute ago." – The salarian replies.

Herrmann shrugs, the grim look not leaving his face.

"Fifty-seven it is." – He says.

Well, something's odd here. I'd expect Herrmann to be a bit more… Upset that one of his patients died.

"That's it?" – I ask incredulously. – "Simply 'fifty-seven it is'?"

He looks at me, his face betraying some anger at this statement.

"I'm not any more satisfied with this than you are." – He explains in an ever-calm voice. – "But that one would have consumed all our resources to save. Keeping him alive at the cost of others was simply out of question, so we sedated him. At least fate had the decency to have him die peacefully."

Damned corporations and their wars… Though, come to think of it, he might have deserved it. He might've been a murderer… Then again, so am I. I guess my fictional hypocrisy meter just spiked.

"Still, how are we supposed to take over a military base with fifty seven troopers, of which at least a dozen aren't up to any fight?" – I ask.

"Right now, the number is eleven." – Herrmann corrects me. – "And I am the wrong person to ask. I am a doctor, damn it, not a general!"

Well, there goes that little theorem that this whole ordeal didn't put him in a bad mood. Gah, this whole thing is a complete disaster. Plain and simple. Though I guess it could, somehow, be worse.

Herrmann decides that enough time has been wasted by chatting and leaves to tend other patients in this forsaken dropship. I look down to my leg. The armor is apparently put back on, though the previously full-body undersuit has been replaced by bandages at one particular spot.

For whatever reason, I look around the dropship. What I see the men and women upon whom I'll depend once we hit the ground. And they are in no fighting condition – Though if human waves, uncaring for subordinates' well-being and other things displayed by our Legionnaire are anything to go by… We'll likely be sent off to battle anyway.

But this waiting, this damned waiting. It's killing me. Not being able to know where we were and how far we were from the battlefield… And I've had enough of this particular dropship to last a lifetime. It just… Reeks of death. And I've had enough of death for a lifetime.

But still, the waiting is just-

"Dropships 1 through 3 are going in." – The comm. unit suddenly comes back to life. – "Dropship 4, stay back until given green light."

"Affirmative." – The… Dropship 4, presumably, replies.

Herrmann suddenly raises his head from his previous patient and turns back to me:

"The die is cast, it would seem." – He says. – "I just hope that the good Legionnaire made a solid gamble."

"Wait," – I begin my next question. – "Who's dropship 4, and who are the other dropships?"

As he with increased haste treats his other patients, Herrmann replies:

"We're Dropship 4, the other three are what is left of combat capable troops." – He explains. – "They are going to try to conquer a landing pad or somesuch, effectively establishing a beachhead. Then we are going to land."

And I can see where this is going. A full-scale battle with Alliance Marines. And I damn sure don't like it, for a plethora of reasons, ranging from the fact that I'd rather not fight Alliance Marines because I owe 'em to the fact that I'd rather not fight Alliance Marines because we're going to have our asses handed to us.

"This is Section 1, encountering minimal resistance. Enemy in full retreat, I guess we surprised 'em." – I hear through the comm. unit.

"Once you clear the Landing Pad itself, lay mines at the entrances and set them to detonate at anything that doesn't have Blue Suns ID." – I hear the Legionnaire's voice once more. – "And begin setting up the Hammer AA's. Establish an aerial deadzone. No one gets in, no one gets out!"

"Affirmative." – The reply comes.

Herrmann nods to himself as Meran seemingly prepares his omni-tool for combat. Isn't a little odd that a salarian is in the Blue Suns, though? That never happened in the game. Then again, this stopped being a mere a game a month ago.

"You should be able to walk with that leg of yours. I repaired most of the fracture to the bone itself, but it is not going to be the most pleasant experience." – Herrmann informs me. – "I would not recommend running, jumping, or anything of the kind. I would not recommend combat either, but you most likely will not have any kind of a choice in the matter."

He then opens up his omni-tool and pushes around a few buttons.

A cold, tingling sensation, only slightly different from that of a medi-gel injection strikes me.

"There, that anesthetic should provide viable enough counteragent to pain." – He says.

Suddenly, an unsatisfied patient pipes in:

"Hey, what about me? I need an anesthetic too!"

"Me too!" – Another says.

"You do not have a fractured bone!" – Herrmann shouts at the first. – "And you already got your dose!"

"How about you cut that bullshit and stop favoring your friend?" – The first one utters.

"And how about you stop playing an expert surgeon?" – Herrmann retorts. – "You do not even have a slightest clue as to what you are asking me to do! If I gave you the anesthetics I have with me, they would interfere with the healing agents I gave you and cause you to have a heart attack!"

This shuts up the complainer. Good riddance.

"This is Section 1. The enemy has been routed. Laying mines." – A simple message sounds off.

"Affirmative. Dropship 4, you are clear to land, I repeat, you are clear to land." – The Legionnaire informs us.

"The die is cast, indeed." – I hear Herrmann mutter to himself.

I feel the dropship shake slightly with the apparent change in direction. I guess this is it. I just hope I'm not forced into combat. I barely stood a chance against the Eclipse at that was while I was still not injured. This is something completely different. I have a nearly broken leg, for all intents and purposes, and I'd be fighting trained Alliance Marines.

"This is your pilot, thanks for flying Blue Suns Airways, prepare for landing." – The apparently 'snarky' pilot informs us.

Few seconds later the dropship jolts more than a little bit. One thing is certain: I am not flying Blue Suns Airways ever again if I can help it. It's the new skycar for me.

The doors open, with less noticeable hiss than of that dropship I flew in before, but still noticeable. I guess no one pays well for vehicle maintenance in the Suns.

We are greeted by a random Blue Suns trooper, who wastes no time on introductions:

"Everyone out! The Centurion wants to brief everyone who can fight and that includes you!"

Yeah, such a caring and concerned leaders we got here. I wonder if we'll get to do banzai charges as well? Now, if only my leg didn't hamper my efforts to get up so much… Much to my rejoice, Herrmann decides to help me out and gives me his hand, which I promptly grab.

Argh! Anesthetics or no anesthetics, that leg hurts like hell when I simply stand on it! And those idiotic commanders expect us to fight?

Still, as I don't think that the outcome of me staying in the dropship would be favorable for myself, I ignore the pain as best as I can and exit the dropship.

Since the exit is actually some half meter above the ground, I'm forced to jump, much to my dismay. Okay, I can do this… Argh! Who designed that piece of shit dropship? What were they thinking?

"Sergei," – I hear Herrmann from behind me. – "Good luck."

I turn to face him, and reply:  
"You too, Herrmann."

"I do not need luck, my friend." – He retorts. – "I have got skill."

Oh, _now _you decided to throw in a jab at me, eh?

"Well good for you." – I reply, though in a mildly joking tone.

"Yes, that is good for me." – He concurs. – "Now, I have a job to complete."

And with that he vanishes back into the gunship, presumably to help up the other wounded. But it is of no concern to me, as far as I am concerned, I have one thing that needs doing: Survival. And my leg isn't going to help it.

I observe the familiar sight of the landing pad. That's what they call this entire area: Landing pad, though there are five landing pads here, four of which are now occupied by Blue Suns dropships. Back on the edges of the area itself, some Blue Suns troopers can be seen setting up what I presume are Hammer AA's. Well, they look like missile launchers, so I presume that they are the Hammers.

Though for me, there is a much more relevant display straight ahead: Next to a wall, the Centurion can be seen on a makeshift podium. The other mercs, minus the ones watching over the hallways that connect these landing pads to the rest of the facility, presumably for Alliance counterattacks, start rallying at this location. I'm actually quite close to the podium itself, and from what I can see, I ended up in the first lines. How very lucky for me…

As the gathering reaches its heights in next few dozen seconds, the Centurion activates his omni-tool powered comm. unit and speaks up:

"Soldiers and officers! Troopers! Blue Suns!" – He begins. – "As you already know, the Bekenstein's Police Department has launched an offensive against all Blue Suns on Bekenstein!"

This is met with silence from the crowd. Yeah, I guess we did already know this.

"However, there is a way for us out yet!" – He continues. – "And it lies within the walls of this facility! Legionnaire Malitherax, present the plan!"

I don't notice the turian until he's already far away from the crowd and stepping up onto the podium. Presumably he was watching with the rest of the crowd, trying to give himself the 'man of the people' image. It doesn't suit him, either way.

He brings his talons to his comm. unit and with a single push activates it.

"Yes, Centurion." – He replies with the façade of respect for the said Centurion.

He suddenly activates his omni-tool and pushes around a few buttons. A few moments later, the tool starts projecting a fairly large map onto the wall.

"Troopers!" – He says. – "Pay attention!"

This garners him the absolute silence and attention from the crowd. I guess they respect the Legionnaire more. Or fear him. One of the two, or perhaps a mix of the two.

He, satisfied with the outcome of his order, points to the lowest point of the map.

"This is the landing pad and we are here." – He says and then points at the other end of the map. – "And our objective is here!"

"That is the docking bay! From the intel we have the, there is a cargo ship docked there. That's our ticket out." – He continues. – "However, going there won't be easy. The standard procedure dictates that the ship is put on lockdown that can only be overridden at the main control tower, which is here."

And he points at the location of the said tower. Of course, as far as I am concerned, he didn't have to, really. I spent some good three days here and I've memorized the layout pretty well. Heh, if only I have known back then I'd be a part of the attack on this place… So much has changed in so little time.

"As if that wasn't enough, the Alliance decided not to make this easy on us." – He continues his briefing. – "Our scouts have found out that the Alliance set up a defensive line here."

With a few pushes of his omni-tool, a bunch of dots appear next to the docks themselves, as well a few in what I recognize as the mess hall, and some other areas I don't recognize at all.

"It's made up of roughly a force twice the size of our own, and they decided to put a few advanced guard units in the facilities before the docks." – He finishes the enemy order of battle. – "We know that the enemy troopers are likely not seasoned soldiers from the Skyllian Verge, but they are still not to be underestimated."

I hear a few murmurs from the back line, but besides that we choose to remain quiet.

"As such, I am forced to ask all of you to commit to this battle, wounded included!" – He says.

What the hell? I was only joking when I thought about banzai charges and uncaring commanders! Goddamn it!

"We, the wounded troopers, have broken bones, internal bleeding and god knows what else!" – I suddenly shout over the comm.

"How are we supposed to fight?" – Another presumably wounded trooper finishes my thoughts.

"We can barely stand! We'll be killed!" – Yells another.

Oh, but our Legionnaire will not have any of this. He suddenly and forcefully shouts back at us:

"Enough! I will not have all these soldiers' lives risked because a few cowards!"

I can hear murmurs of agreement from the other Blue Suns. So yeah, he's apparently turning the public opinion against us.

"Your wounds mean nothing! What are you, failed soldiers, perhaps? Cowards? _Traitors?_" – He continues his scolding, before pointing directly at me. – "And you! You will either lead by example or I'll make you into one! We are Blue Suns and we are legion! And this legion will not be directed by a privileged few not willing to sacrifice for the greater whole!"

… Aaand, the non-wounded troopers are practically cheering for the Legionnaire. I guess there goes the thought of sitting this one through.

"Now, unless our traitors have anything to say…" – He says, as if trying to provoke us into talking. We're not crazy enough. – "Good. Now to continue with the briefing."

And the pad falls silent once more.

"As you probably noticed, there are three paths off this landing path." – He says as he points at them on the map. – "All three lead to the docks. We will use this to our advantage and split up into three sections in order to throw their defenses off balance."

A trooper from the back ranks asks:

"Sir, with all due respect, won't this also weaken our attack? There are still far more of them than there are of us, wouldn't it make more sense to group up and attack together?"

Surprisingly enough, our Legionnaire doesn't lash out against the trooper:

"A fair point, but our plan isn't as simple as you make it out to be, trooper." – He replies relatively politely. – "As I was saying, we will group into three sections: Eastwards, Center and Westwards. I think you all get where each section will be going."

I can see a few nods at the edge of my vision, or at least as much of the edge of the vision as my helmet allows.

"Now, to answer our comrade-in-arms' critique, we will not be attacking simultaneously." – He continues. – "We have disabled the security systems on the Pad itself, so the enemy has no idea what's going on here. The Center Section will be equipped with our best weapons in order to simulate a larger force and will attack first."

Thanks to the magic of omni-tools, an arrow going down the central route through the facility appears as he speaks this.

"The enemy will be convinced that this is the main attack and they will commit most of their forces in order to reinforce their defensive line there. Then, the remaining two Sections will simultaneously advance and breach the weakened enemy perimeter, effectively throwing the enemy defensive into chaos." – He says.

I can hear several mutters here and there, apparently discussing the plan, but I can't make them out.

"Now, the Eastwards Section, filled with our best technicians, will proceed to the main control tower and lift the cargo vessel's lockdown as well as disable the enemy's capability to restore it. While there, they will also disrupt the enemy defensive in any way they can." – He says. The best techies? I guess that means Meran and my squad are going there. – "The Westwards Section will, once they break through the enemy lines, turn around and assist the Center Section, hopefully crushing the enemy defensive on that front. From there, the Center and Westwards section will join into a single cohesive unit and proceed to mount a defensive position near the ship itself. There, they will wait for the Eastwards Section to rendezvous with them and from there, we will board the ship and get the hell off this planet."

As much as I hate to say it, this sounds like a decent plan, except for the fact that Center Section will be practically overwhelmed until the help can arrive.

"Now, the Center Section will be made out of our wounded and one standard squad." – He says. Son of a chernobylized varren… Know what? Right now, I think that this is the worst plan ever, of all time. – "This is because our main attack force needs to be at their best. These will be no easy fights. You will be facing the Alliance Marines. But fear not, Center Sectioneers! You will be granted five of our heavy grenade launchers. That should keep your foes at their toes!"

Well, at least _something _is in our favor.

"The Center Section will be lead by our Centurion, and I will lead the Westwards Section. Sergeant Igorovich! You will be leading the Eastwards Section." – He says. – "Now, it's time for some organization! Hurry up, we don't have any more time to waste!"

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

I breathe deeply. The Center Section certainly has it the worst. And that would be bad if I was as healthy as I can be, but I have a 'mostly healed' leg. And despite the anesthetics, it's still hurting and distracting as hell.

And the fact that I'm going without my squad isn't helping. Though I most certainly do not like them, it's true what they say, the devil you know's better than the one that you don't. My only exchanges with this Centurion are half a dozen sentences I exchanged with him back at the selection. It is at times such as this that actually seeing that ugly batarian son-of-a-bitch Sergeant actually gives me hope.

I look back up at some trooper showcasing how to use the grenade launcher for the hundredth time.

"… You aim it slightly above your intended target. This thing shoots a ballistic projectile, not a laser. Don't worry about the recoil, it doesn't have much in terms of that." – She says. – "Each drum has five grenades and you'll be given one extra drum…"

But there's no need to actually listen to this. I did it for the past few minutes, and it's not as if she's actually saying something new. The grenade launcher thing is actually quite similar to that from Mass Effect 2, though I think it's an older model.

Either way, it's not really an issue that truly concerns me. As the grenade launchers are handed out in a pretty distinct pattern of every second trooper getting it, I won't be having my own grenade launcher. It's probably for the best, though. With my recent luck it'd just blow up in my face anyway.

Hmm… It would appear that there are two more troopers that need to be given their weapons. As the guy in front of me moves, so do I, despite the aching leg. Heh, it's quite the army the good old Legionnaire got himself here… Troopers with broken legs, troopers with barely healed internal bleeding, troopers that are barely alive, et cetera. He should be glad if we live long enough to be useful.

True enough, though, we do have a proper squad attached to our little battlegroup. I don't know whether or not I should count in the Centurion, though, si-

"You!" – The trooper handing out the weapons says as he points at me. – "We don't have time for traitors like you stalling the line!"

And then I realize that I've been standing around like an idiot, when it was my turn to pick up my gear. Damn it. But what's done is done, so no sense in standing around here any longer.

"Right." – I reply simply. What else am I supposed to say, anyway?

The trooper in front of me doesn't even bother with replying and instead hands me over a rifle – Avenger by the looks of it – And as soon as I grab the thing hands me over three grenades. Great, just what I need. Something that'll blow up in my face.

"Now, see that gathering over there?" – The trooper informs me in the most condensing tone I've heard. – "We call that a _squad_. How about you walk towards and join it?"

Oh what the fuck is this guy's problem? Sure, I've got lost in thought for a second, but he's just being an asshole about it!

In a move that surprises me as much as my condensing Blue Suns compatriot, I grab and activate my rifle.

"Now, see this little thing?" – I ask, deciding to go along with this little renegade interrupt. – "We call that a _rifle_. Unless you want to join us 'traitors', I suggest you shut your mouth."

And then I realize just how horribly I've miscalculated, as every gun within ten meter radius is now pointed at my little self.

The Centurion, previously just chilling around, is quick to take note of this and quickly rushes to the scene itself, which is turning out to be quite the classical Mexican standoff. That is, if a Mexican standoff featured a dozen rifles pointed at a single person. No, a 'massacre-to-be' is far better description.

"What the hell is going on!" – The Centurion demands. – "Everyone stand down!"

Apparently the Centurion _does _command some respect and authority, as everyone stands down. Seeing this, I figure it'd be smart to do the same. As I lower my own rifle.

"Now, what the hell just happened?" – The Centurion demands.

"This _traitor_," – The condensing trooper begins, pointing at me. – "Pulled out a gun at me for no reason!"

"Trooper?" – The Centurion asks for explanation.

Well, I guess the truth is what I'll have to say.

"The trooper," – I begin my own version of events. – "Was being an asshole. I just wanted to give him a good scare."

The Centurion just sighs at this, and raises his hand to his hand in a contemplative stance for a few seconds.

"Look, troopers. Nerves are getting to all of us." – He finally says. – "Let's just forget this ever happened and be glad that the Legionnaire wasn't the one to respond to this."

Sensible enough.

"Yes Sir." – I reply.

"Aye, aye." – The trooper agrees.

With that, and quite a few protests from my leg, I turn and head towards the squad. Admittedly, what just happened was… Fairly violent of me. It's not as if I was ever the greatest diplomat, but I preferred to avoid fights. Have I changed _this much_ in just a month? Am I of this weak conviction? Psycho would hold it that this is actually an advantage, then again she's Psycho. And assuming what she's saying is true, what would that make me? An opportunist?

As I approach my new squad, the apparent leader sighs to himself before saying:

"Oh great, we've got one of _those _troopers."

I might've responded to this if it was not for the fact that I was in a similar situation not too long ago. Instead, I choose to simply introduce myself:  
"Trooper Pavlov reporting for duty, Sir!"

One of the three remaining troopers just chuckles darkly at this. The leader, however, prefers to speak:

"No one cares who you are. In a few minutes we'll be all dead anyway."

Well, I guess I finally found a bigger pessimist than myself.

"Not too optimistic about our prospects, Sir?" – I ask.

"If we live long enough to actually _engage _the enemy, I'll consider myself successful as a squad leader." – He says, and seeing my momentary silence continues. – "It's quite the squad we've got here. Most of us are in the grave with one foot already. Some are taking the next step. Where do you stand?"

Quite the ironic wording, come to think of it.

"Just a fractured…" – Then I realize I forgot what Herrmann called it. – "Gah, what did he call it? Fabian bone?"

Even though he still has his helmet on, I can tell that he's staring at me blankly.

"What the hell are you talking about? What's a Fabian bone?" – He finally asks.

"I don't know. Some sort of bone in the leg." – I reply.

"… Right. Definitely one of _those _troopers." – He says.

Well, at least this guy doesn't seem like as big of an asshole as that trooper back on the line. Which, I'll assume, is a good thing.

"What's your name, anyway?" – I ask.

"Still interested in names?" – He says. – "You can call me trooper MacGregor."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

As the hallway is too narrow for all of us to pass at once, the unwounded squad takes the lead, with my squad being in the middle and another squad of us wounded in the back.

Walking through this hallway brings back plentiful of memories… I might've thought the place relatively poorly, but so much has changed since then. Those were the good days, I simply didn't recognize it at the time.

"Watch those doors. We wouldn't want any Marines sneaking up on us, now would we?" – I hear MacGregor say. – "Oh, and Madani, Hamilton? Don't shoot those grenade launchers if they do. We don't want to blow up our troops."

This snaps me back to reality of the situation, and my injured – And I can swear deteriorating – Leg helps to keep me there. This is no time for reminiscenting.

But that's still somewhat better than staring at all these closed doors. If there was an ambush, one would think that they'd launch it right about… Now!

But there's nothing, so our march towards our victory – Or death, more likely – Goes on.

"Anything?" – MacGregor asks.

"Nothing." – Ramsay, another trooper in this makeshift squad replies.

"Negative contacts here." – Says Madani.

"Same here." – I say.

The Centurion seems to be having similar thoughts:

"There may be no contacts as of yet, but stay alert." – He says over the comm. – "We're about to enter the mess hall. Expect resistance."

Few seconds later, he issues the first set of orders:

"Carlson, Richter. Prepare to breach the doors on my command."

Breach the doors? I can't see them from here, but from what I remember they were supposed to be always open. Something's seriously wrong he-

A massive explosion tears through the narrow corridors, powerful enough to knock me off balance, even though I'm some fifteen meters away from the apparent blast.

As my focus returns and I turn towards the doors. I see just two of the previously six strong first squad standing. The front of the room is just… Sickening, for the lack of the better word… Guts, blood, flesh everywhere. Damn it… Must try not to puke… I turn my head away.

Suddenly, a comm. transmission comes in, revealing a strained voice:

"Troopers… This is Centurion Hanson… Would seem that the enemy got the better of me… Win the battle with – Argh! Wi…" – And with that the transmission cuts.

"Squad, on me!" – MacGregor orders. I turn around to see that he is headed for the mess the explosion created. Besides the two barely standing troopers, the nearest _thing _that resembled a human was… Ugh…

I remove the helmet as quickly as possible, as I am no longer capable of controlling my instinctual reaction… Gah, am I glad that I didn't get to eat anything today…

"Cut it out, trooper!" – MacGregor orders. I barely hear him, as I am too _busy_. I know that when I'm in a life/death situation, hygiene shouldn't be all that important, but damn!

"This is trooper MacGregor to Legionnaire Malitherax, do you read me?" – I hear our squad leader.

A few moments later, as I finally start putting the helmet back on, I hear the reply.

"… Affirmative, Trooper. What is the message?" – The Legionnaire's distinctive voice is heard.

"We… Fell for a trap, Sir. A bomb killed four of the First Squad's troopers, the Centurion included." – MacGregor says.

"Damn it!" – The Legionnaire replies. – "No matter, you must push the attack!"

Push the attack? Is this guy insane?

"Sir, with all due respect, we're down to twelve men. We don't stand a chance!" – Our temporary leader says.

"If you don't push the attack, we'll all be killed anyway!" – The Legionnaire retorts. – "Attack, that's an order!"

MacGregor stays silent for a few moments, as if contemplating the entire situation. Then he nods a couple of times, by all appearances more to himself than anyone else. He then turns towards us and speaks:

"We're all one foot in the grave already. Might as well make 'em fight for it."

"That's suicide!" – I practically shout. I'm not ready to die just yet!

"Just another part of the job, trooper." – MacGregor replies. – "Besides, if we do retreat, the Legionnaire will have us shot. I worked with him enough times to know."

"Damned if you do it, damned if you don't." – Ramsay pipes in.

"Precisely." – Agrees MacGregor. – "Now Ramsay, Pavlov! See if the First Squad's grenade launchers are still intact. We're going to need every extra bit of firepower."

Oh, by the power of Whiskey…

"You seriously think that they're still intact?" – I try to find an excuse to _not _pick up something that's covered in human remains and that could blow up in my face.

"I've seen 'em before." – MacGregor says. – "They are tough as hell."

Well, there goes that option… I spot the nearest one and while approaching it, slide my rifle back onto my back-plates. Despite my instincts telling me not to, I pick the thing back up. It's surprisingly intact… If a bit disgusting.

Seeing that Ramsay did the same as I, MacGregor uses his comm. system to contact our Legionnaire once more:

"We're attacking, Sir. Wish us luck."

"Affirmative." – Is the only response we receive. Not even, you know, 'good luck'?

I guess MacGregor's the new Section Commander, as the other squad seems to be obeying his orders. I have no idea how the whole chain of command even functions here…

"Alright, let's move up!" – MacGregor says. – "Once we clear the doors, find cover!"

Oh, and here I was thinking we were supposed to be staying out in the open… Thanks for pointing out the obvious!

At least the doors won't be a problem any more. The bomb apparently took them out as well.

Our squad leader is the first to pass, and I am the limping second. Once we clear the door, I immediately take note of an overturned table. The thing is too thin to provide for actual cover, but it'll at least conceal me from any enemies.

"Hostiles, ten o' clock!" – Shouts MacGregor. I don't get a chance to look, as I rush for the noted piece of cover. For once, it's not hard to actually duck behind it, and I come to it not a moment too soon, if the barrages of fire, coming from varying spots of the room, are any indication.

The adrenaline starts pumping again, and much to my delight, the annoying traitorous leg finally ceases its protests. As the others enter the room, our own little barrage opens up. First the assault rifles, then the grenade launchers.

As the apparently overwhelmed Alliance Marines cease fire, I finally dare to rise from my sanctuary. Then, a thought strikes me: I have never trained to use this thing! Alright, I heard that trooper talk something about raising the barrel slightly above your target… Alright, aim at the nearest set of dark blue armor and…

I pull the trigger twice. I can see the relatively slow-moving grenades exit the barrel and completely miss the target, actually not to my chagrin. Firstly, I'd prefer not to have to kill Alliance Marines; secondly, I'd hate to see to see what happens when one of those grenades actually hits a person.

If the various smoking holes are any indication, the others have similar thoughts. However, the Alliance forces are in full retreat from the relatively large room, and are evacuating to the hallway which leads to the docks.

"They're retreating!" – MacGregor shouts. – "Everyone charge! To victory!"

I'm once again not the first one to answer this call to war, as I let others charge ahead of me. A second or two later, I vault over the table and join the charge. As the mess hall is a relatively large and right now quite messed up room, it takes us a dozen seconds to reach the other.

This, however, is still not enough time for the Marines to escape. They're still scrambling over each other towards the exit. Damn, they must think they're facing down a horde… But none of fire, minus the few bursts from the assault rifle wielders. Maybe it's due to the claustrophobic nature of the hallway, maybe it's because none of us like massacres.

The assault rifle bursts being enough of a cue, the Marines manage to scramble through the doors and into the docks. We follow them in suit with such haste that you almost, were it not for limping, couldn't tell us apart from regular trooper. Hell, I'm fairly certain that the Marines didn't have time to do so.

The less fortunate of us charge into the docks first and from the sounds of it are greeted by heavy fire. The luckier ones of us lot, who decided to stay in the back ranks, like myself get a chance to orient ourselves to the location of the enemy and cover.

As I, despite the continuing protests of my leg, charge towards a cargo crate that seems to provide most cover, a plethora of screams of massacred troopers can be heard. I, however, have little time to care for them in any other way that I would care for a shield – A human shield, in this case – As my instinctual need to survive takes over.

The fact that my leg hurts this much despite the adrenaline, however, concerns me. But it is something Herrmann will have to take care of later. The sprint takes me to the crate, and I quickly take cover behind it. As such, I'm forced to look back at the area I just ran through. Now, three lifeless bodies decorate the floor… Guess there never was any real hope for surviving this mission after all.

"This is MacGregor to Malitherax! We've engaged the brunt of enemy offensive! Down to nine men! We're outnumbered at least four to one!" – Our de facto leader reports.

Besides MacGregor and I, it would seem that two other troopers made it to this container. As my HUD doesn't recognize them, I'll presume that they're from the other squad. The remainder of our forces has settled behind another container to the right of us.

"Affirmative, trooper. Do your best to complete the task." – The Legionnaire replies.

"Sir! I don't think you understand our position! If we press the attack, we will not survive!" – MacGregor argues.

"And if you don't press the attack, none of us will survive." – The Legionnaire retorts. – "And I'll personally see to it that _you_ don't!"

MacGregor nods to himself, presumably realizing that he's exhausted every alternative.

"Yes Sir." – He grimly acknowledges before turning to us. – "This is it."

"We must retreat! We'll be killed!" – I argue.

"And then we'll be killed by our own troops." – MacGregor notes. – "Die with some dignity, man!"

"For whatever that's worth…" – The trooper next to me mutters.

MacGregor, however, chooses to ignore this remark and instead uses his comm. unit:

"Grenadiers! Ready your launchers!" – He orders. – "Riflemen, ready your grenades! Prepare to fire on my command!"

My grip of the bloody grenade launcher tightens at this. If my memory serves me, I should have three grenades left. Hmpf. I didn't figure that it'd end like this… But 'tis true, what they say. Who lives by the sword, dies by the sword.

"All units: Open fire!" – Our leader orders, and moment later throws his own grenade, as a signal more than anything.

With swift motion, I peek out of the cover with the launcher. The enemy seems amassed before a single line of cover, apparently constructed from various smaller crates. This almost like a battle from the First World War… Without any particular aiming, I push the trigger once. The grenade exits the barrel without much ceremony and flies towards the enemy, hitting the cover. Grenades of my fellow grenadiers soon follow in a fairly massive shelling, though only a few hit their targets. I fire off my second and finally the third grenades not long afterwards, following which I return to cover.

Gladly dropping the gruesome weapon, I reach for my Avenger once more. Time to prepare for our final stand. I just… Hope that this all has been worth it. Maybe the Marines will fall for this deception? Not like it'll matter to me in a few moments.

Despite the continued protests coming from my leg, I crouch down. My grip of the rifle tightens in preparation of what's to come. Fear, more than anything sweeps over my mind. Just sheer terror at the inevitable.

I think back at my family and all that I was forced to leave behind… A man's last thoughts should be of their family, after all. If this is indeed the end, I don't want to die thinking of the battle. Never wanted to die an old man, anyway…

"We've got incoming on our nine! Lots of 'em!" – I hear the voice of another trooper.

"Same on three o' clock!" – I hear the words uttered over the comm. I guess we did it.

"This is MacGregor to Malitherax!" – Our leader utters. – "They are diverting their forces to fight us here!"

"Well done, trooper. We will commence advance immediately. Hold tight! We will reinforce you!" – The Legionnaire replies.

"Too late for that, Legionnaire. If we live long enough to hear your first shots, we'll consider ourselves lucky." – MacGregor replied. – "Call us what you will. Failed soldiers, cowards, traitors. But the fact is, we died like Blue Suns."

Has this guy just called off our rescue? What the hell? It takes a few moments, but the Legionnaire finally replies.

"Your sacrifices will be remembered, trooper." – He says.

"Are you crazy?" – I ask. – "You just called off our rescue!"

"If I was to guess, there are eighty men descending upon us." – He replies. – "Twenty troopers that Malitherax could give us would mean nothing against those forces. We all knew this was a one-way trip anyway."

"Are you really willing to kill yourself for a merc organization?" – I ask.

"Kid," – He begins. – "I'm from the era when being Blue Suns meant something more than just earning money."

So, I guess he's from back when Zaeed founded the Suns. Great. That'll help us survive. Now, we have the bigger problem of being practically surrounded by Alliance Marines. It wouldn't be the first time smaller numbers defeated the larger ones, for example Spartans did so on the Thermopylae… Wait, there's an idea…

"Sir! I suggest we retreat back into the mess hall! The hallway would deny them their numeric advantage!" – I say.

MacGregor, though, just shakes his head.

"Too late for that." – He says. – "We'd just be cut down before we'd even reach the hallway ourselves."

"What's the other option?" – I argue. – "To stand around and do nothing?"

"No." – He replies. – "We have no options. We just have one task left: To hold off the enemy as long as possible."

"I'm not ready to die for a merc organization!" – I say.

He then points at the advancing squads coming from our left – We only have a few lowly crates to provide cover.

"They are ready to make you do it anyway." – He says. – "Speaking of which, I do still have two grenades left…"

Oh, what is this crazy merc preparing to do now? He picks up one in either hand, and seemingly activates them.

"Give me some covering fire, will you?" – He orders and not waiting for my response leaps over the little cover.

I instinctually raise my rifle towards the incoming Marines and fire off a few three-rounders. In the Marines' general direction, though I doubt they actually hit anything.

Seeing a crazed merc charging towards, the Alliance troopers open fire almost immediately. His shields take only a few moments to deplete, yet despite evident hits he keeps going, unrelenting in his charge. The Marines seem to panic at the seemingly unstoppable MacGregor.

But this only lasts a few seconds, as the veteran merc collapses, but the Alliance Marines for some reason retreat as fast as hell… A few seconds later, the grenades explode and I am given an explanation as to why.

Not really interested in seeing what the results of this are, I duck behind the cover, lowering my head as much as possible. I am given a clear sight of the other group fighting. Only two are left standing, and the situation is same here, as the other trooper's still alive.

A strong explosion, however, rocks the other crate and once the smoke clears I can see that all that remains of the other group are their bloody remains. It won't be long now… Oh, the irony! I am about to die at the hands of the same organization that saved me a month back. How quickly things can change.

Suddenly, an all-powerful voice speaks over what appears to be a loudspeaker:

"Blue Suns troopers, this is your only chance to surrender!" – It says. – "Come out of your cover without any weapons and you won't be harmed!"

They are actually offering us a chance to surrender? That… That might be my way out of here!

"I don't know about you, but I'm not ready to die for some stuck up Legionnaire." – I say to the remaining teammate I've got here.

"You realize they'll throw us into prison, right?" – He replies.

"That's better than death." – I retort.

"Not as far as I remember…" – He retorts. Great, my teammate's a criminal. What a fine time to find that out.

"You can break out of a jail, but you can't break out of death!" – I argue.

"Guess you're right." – He says and then throws away his rifle. I proceed to do the same.

"Blue Suns troopers, this is your final warning! Come out and you won't be harmed!" – The loudspeaker sounds off once more.

"Okay, okay! We're coming out!" – I yell.

Slowly enough I raise myself back to my feet. I can't see the Marines I've exposed myself to since my back is turned towards them. Still, I can just _feel _their rifles pointed at me. Okay, no sudden moves. As slowly as I've risen to my feet, I exit the cover, followed by my teammate.

"Hands where we can see them!" – The now-visible trooper with the loudspeaker orders. I, having no other choice, comply and raise my hands, showing that there's nothing in them that could possibly harm them.

Three Alliance Marines approach us, their rifles locked and loaded. Their apparent leader motions for us to move, leaving them behind our backs. We comply at this as well and walk forward.

"So," – One of them begins. – "These are mercs that thought they could steal our ship? Pathetic."

Pathetic, perhaps. But alive. As much as I wish to retort, the position I'm in doesn't allow me such liberties.

Then suddenly, the loudspeaker Marine starts talking into his communicator:

"What do you mean, 'more of them'?"

My own comm. unit bursts back to life as well:

"This is Eastwards Section, we're engaging the enemy!"

And then once more:

"This is Legionnaire Malitherax, we too are in contact with enemy!" – The Legionnaire responds. – "Men! Reinforce the left flank and keep firing! Maintain fire and cut down those gunners!"

And so, it would seem, the battle is going alive once again.

**A/N: And there goes the tenth chapter. **

**Well, a month has passed since the original. A month, ten chapters and over fifty thousand words. Whoa. I didn't think my story would've reached anywhere near the heights it has. And if all the alerts, reviews and hits I'm getting is any indication, I'm actually doing something right.**

**Also, since I'm in the bad habit of not using the PM system as often as I should, I'll put up a little Q&A section after each chapter in order to answer any questions you might have. So if you have any questions, feel free to ask them! **

**But for this chapter, I'll try to write my thoughts on what was, what is and what will be.**

**Well, there was a question on how long it would take 'til Pavlov rendezvous with Shepard and her squad on Eden Prime. **

**I'll start right away and say that this won't happen in this story. It's quite possible that it'll happen in the next one, but not in this one.**

**While we're on the subject, funnily enough, this story originally was supposed to start on Eden Prime and have the main character experience the events of ME1 from a different perspective. Ultimately, I'm glad I changed this if due to nothing else then the fact that plenty SI's start on Eden Prime, and I'm trying to be sorta original with this one.**

**Now, about Pavlov. As you might've already noted, he didn't spend exactly a lot of time mourning for his lost life, but rather decided to put it off for later. Without spoiling anything, I can only say that this will have an effect on later events.**

**Furthermore, I do not intend for my character to be a hero of any sorts. This is primarily because heroism is an overdone theme in the ME universe per se, and secondarily because such I've often seen lead into the trap of Mary Sueism, which I hope I've avoided so far. **

**Though, when I say 'not a hero', I don't automatically mean that Pavlov will become a villain. I'll try to write him as neither a particularly good nor bad character, though in time definitely troubled one.**

**As for the story itself, some of you have noted that it has its darker moments. I do intend to keep them, since in my opinion they are far too often left out in ME games and fanfics alike. Still, I'll try not to do grimdark, since after all this is _not _the grim darkness of the 41st Millennium and there are other things besides war.**

**Oh, and remember those pseudo-racist undertones Pavlov has for Sergeant… Gah, what's his name? Reviok, I think. **

**They haven't been forgotten and will not pass without some effect on the story.**

**And one last thing: The sidestory of how Pavlov ended up in ME universe will have its debut soon.**

**Hopefully this answered some of your questions as to where the story's going.**

**Oh, and one last note: Now I understand why it often takes up to several weeks for authors to update. This sort of work is actually quite… Tiring in it's own regard. You can force quick updates, but it'll burn you out.**

**Also, what the hell did I do to this A/N? It's the longest of its kind in my story!**

**Anyway, see ya in the next chapter!**


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